


Where Have All The Flowers Gone

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Epistolary, Gen, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the eve of the second World War, Lieutenant Colonel Thorin Durin sends his young nephews - his only remaining family - to live safely in the countryside. Fili and Kili end up staying with Bilbo Baggins, in his cozy little house virtually in the middle of nowhere. The boys and their Uncle exchange letters, the soldier understandably worried about how they're being treated, and soon, Bilbo sees it fit to start adding little messages of his own - unbeknownst to him, Thorin begins cherishing those almost as much as his nephews' words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right then, this fic is finally a go, after almost a year of scheming it! I'm studying the second World War in-depth literally as I go, and it's really something, I haven't been this involved with history since high school probably.  
> Anyway, those of you who have read my previous works know that I've written Bilbo as pretty good with children before - it's my favorite dynamic to flesh out, aside from the obvious one, and I thought I'd give it a different spin this time around. Because he isn't necessarily amazing with them, I don't think (hence him likening Fili and Kili to like four different animal babies in the first chapter alone) but he'll get better.  
> Also please check out [northerntrash](http://northerntrash.tumblr.com)'s amazing fic [The Wounding And Healing Of Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3948658/chapters/8851894) which is an excellent Barduil take on this same premise!

There is a hill, and tall grass, and cobwebs shimmering like the most expensive golden lace in the glow of the setting sun, and the air smells of smoke. He's run up that hill countless times before, up and down, and up again, and yet it now feels like he will never be able to reach the top.

_You have to keep them safe. Keep them safe. Get out of sight._

His brother's little hand is threatening to slip out of his grasp with each step they take, and the baby is beginning to wake up in the makeshift harness tied too tight around his chest, squirming and babbling. At least her feet won't be getting soaked with dew.

_Stay away until it's completely quiet._

“Come on!” he beckons his brother desperately, tugging at his hand as the boy sniffles and stumbles clumsily after him.

_Keep them safe, no matter what._

Finally, they stand on the top of their hill, out of breath and cheeks red, and he gasps.

“It's a fire,” his little brother whimpers, chubby little fingers squeezing his hand tight.

It's not just one house, and he thinks it's strange, seeing the fire and the smoke, but not hearing the crackle and hiss of it. It smells the same as when they'd bake apples and bread with their father, late afternoons spent atop this very hill, but this time, he's afraid to look back down at their own home, and the night is approaching too quickly, and their father is nowhere near.

“Yeah, I know,” he peeps, his voice shaky, “let's go.”

The baby starts crying, quiet hiccuping sobs, and they can hear the sounds of something large and terrifying and deadly somewhere far, far away.

 

-

 

It is raining when the boys arrive, gray shreds of clouds hanging low, perhaps the first reminder that autumn is now really approaching. Besides, Bilbo wakes with a distinct dull ache in his lower back and knee, and if anything, _that_ is a clear indication that the weather is about to change.

The train station is overflowing, people saying their farewells, the shuffling of feet and ringing of emotions in far too many voices at once, and Bilbo tries his best to search the crowd for his visitors, while at the same time avoiding eye contact in case someone recognizes him.

He feels oddly detached from all of this still – he knows how many people have received their letters, or have been otherwise summoned, and he remembers sitting around cousin Primula's radio with half his family just a couple of days ago, and listening to the demure, tired voice of Neville Chamberlain informing them that Britain was now officially at war, and yet...

He knows that he won't be participating, and he worries he shouldn't feel this calm about it.

...And that must be them, right there.

His heart clenches painfully in his chest at the sight of them – they are so tiny just standing there, the taller boy clutching a beaten old suitcase, not particularly big either, and his little brother clutching onto _him._ Bilbo approaches them cautiously, almost worried he might spook them like young deer, and sees tears in the eyes of the little one, and stubbornly concealed fear in those of his big brother.

“You must be Fili and Kili,” he greets them cheerfully, which causes the younger one to yelp like a startled puppy, and the older one to step forward as if to protect him.

“Oh, I'm sorry, don't worry,” Bilbo hurries to summon what he can only hope is a reassuring smile, “I'm Bilbo Baggins, I'm the one you'll be staying with. See, I have a letter here, let me just...”

He can feel their eyes on him as he fumbles for it in his pockets, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Ah, here we go, see... A letter from an old friend, describing your arrival in detail, he insisted I show you... Oh, but this is not a good place to stand. Let's go, let's get you two out of here. Don't be afraid, you'll get dry and warm in no time.”

He's fully aware he might be rambling a little bit, but he's only making up for their complete, terrified silence – they watch his every move like he might turn into something truly horrifying any second now, and follow him only very reluctantly, eyes large with frightful curiosity looking around their grim surroundings.

He leads them away from the bustle of the train station, chattering away about his neighbor waiting for them with a coach, and about the weather, and about anything and everything, and it is only when they're all seated, safely but somewhat damply, in the back of his neighbor Hamfast's wagon, that he notices that the little one is outwardly sobbing now, hiding his face in his big brother's coat the first chance he gets.

Bilbo doesn't know what to say – he never quite has around children – and he hates this. Hates that this is where the war is already taking its toll, so, so early on.

 

The rain is an unceasing, unpleasant drill by the time Bilbo's neighbor drops all three of them off at the gate of Bilbo's garden, instead of at the bottom of the hill leading up to the house, like he usually does, and Bilbo thanks him breathlessly and ushers the boys inside, almost afraid they might catch a cold the second they come into contact with the weather up here. Indeed, he can barely keep up with them, with his cane and everything, as they rush to hide under the leaking roof on the veranda.

“It'll only take a couple more autumns like this one for my living room to flood,” Bilbo babbles as he searches for his keys, “but obviously I can't simply climb up there and repair it myself, now can I... ah, here we are...”

The second they step foot inside, Bilbo curses himself for not turning the heat on, the cold of the old stone has never quite bothered him, but surely the boys... They're standing there, huddled close like two bundles of misery, dripping on the floor, still watching him highly warily at best, and Bilbo sighs in a compassion long unknown.

“Alright, you two,” he opts for his gentlest tone possible, “what do you say I show you to your room, we get you out of those clothes and into something dry and warm, and I'll fix you up something to eat, eh? Come now, come on.”

It's like being followed by two very distraught puppies – Bilbo keeps looking behind his shoulder as he leads them upstairs just to make sure they're still there, that's how quiet they are.

They assess their room quietly, converted into something semi-livable from what used to be Bilbo's reading room, and they let him peek inside their suitcase quietly, and they agree quietly when he suggests they change and meet him downstairs for something warm to put in their bellies – just when Bilbo is beginning to get worried they might never show and he'd have to go fetch them, they appear in the kitchen hand in hand, their clothes old and repaired many times, but clean and dry and warm, and he still doesn't get a single word out of them, though they do eat rather gratefully.

When he just about runs out of things to say, Bilbo attempts to watch them inconspicuously so as not to distress them even further – Fili, that's the older one at nine years of age, if Bilbo has read the initial letter correctly, is all fair hair that might have been neatly combed back at the beginning of their journey here, but is now falling in curling strands into his face, clever blue eyes on Bilbo only when he's not looking, a resilience and determination to his young features that is a bit unsettling.

The baby brother he seems so fiercely protective of on the other hand, peeks at Bilbo curiously with dark eyes from under a riot of equally dark curls, and at first glance, he'd never guess them for relations.

But then again, a couple of weeks ago he'd never have guessed he'd be sheltering two little orphan boys in his house, duration unknown.

And if that duration will be spent like this evening, trying to come up with something for them to do while they still both refuse to say a word to him, they might as well all strap in.

The only thing they seem to be passionate about is eating, and cooking is something Bilbo can _definitely_ do, and so he feeds them a lot that day, because they're both so skinny and small, and it's a long way up from the south.

 

“ _...and noon marked the advance of the forces of the Soviet Union into Poland, quickly decimating any resistance and occupying the country's eastern territories. The siege of the capital Warsaw continues to develop grimly, and it is unclear whether...”_

 

Bilbo isn't terribly proud of almost nodding off, even though it _is_ terribly late, but he might be even less proud of the undignified yelp that escapes him when he sees a tiny figure standing in the doorway, and his first thought is, _grandmother was right about the ghosts after all._

“F-Fili!” he gasps when he realizes what's really going on, scrambling to lower the volume of the radio, “oh, but you – you shouldn't be up, it's so late! Are you alright?”

He is barefoot, and his large eyes are gleaming unnaturally in the dim glow of Bilbo's reading lamp, and he's wringing his hands, and _of course_ he's not alright, what a silly thing to ask.

“Come on, let's get you back to bed before you catch a cold out here,” Bilbo sighs, and ponders extending his hand to the boy, but he seems content enough to just follow him back up to the first floor.

“Kili was crying,” he peeps, and Bilbo almost trips and tumbles back down the stairs, that's how unexpected hearing his voice for the first time is.

“Oh, he... he was?”

“M-hm. We can't sleep.”

“Well then, we can... hmm,” Bilbo comments rather helplessly – he is quickly beginning to realize he's rather ill-equipped for this. Bedtime stories, isn't that what people do? Is he going to be terrible at this? Most probably.

Kili's curled up frame is entirely too tiny in the old bed that used to belong to Bilbo's father, and even when Fili rejoins him, crawling back in, it still looks dreadfully empty, like the sheets might swallow them whole.

The younger buy uncurls like a dozing kitten, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes, and they both watch Bilbo expectantly – he's probably supposed to know what to do here.

“Are you, um... cold?” he asks rather uneasily, and they shake their head in unison.

“Right then. Do you want me to, uhh... Oh, I know. My mum always used to make me hot milk with a bit of honey in it, that's excellent for falling asleep. How about that?”

Kili is still rubbing on his nose, staring at Bilbo like he's trying to figure him out, confused in that disconcerting way only small children can be, and Fili takes a deep shuddering breath, wrapping his arms around his knees, shrugging.

“Oh, it's guaranteed to work,” Bilbo smiles, because he's honestly at a loss for what else to do, “why don't you wait here, and I'll be right back with two nice steaming mugs of sweet milk. Yes, I think that'll be good. Alright, you two just... alright then. Hold – hold tight.”

He limps out of the room too quickly to be in any way polite, muttering under his breath about horrible no-good stairs and canes forgotten two rooms away, and it is probably entirely natural that he lets out a little bit of a squeak when he turns around in the kitchen to find the boys standing hand in hand in the doorway, but no one needs to know about it either way.

“Oh, you...! You didn't have to follow me down here, I would have brought it up to your room,” he smiles nervously.

“It's too dark out here,” Fili admits, and Kili nods in meek agreement.

“It's too dark out – oh, of course. You're from the city, so... Yes. It must be very dark here, my goodness. Why don't I just...”

“Mum used to leave a candle burning until we went to sleep.”

“Oh, she did, did she? That's...”

He probably shouldn't say _unsafe._ Good god, but he has no idea how to talk to small scared children – he's perpetually worried about saying the wrong thing and upsetting them, or even worse, making them cry again, because _that,_ he most definitely doesn't know how to deal with.

But fortunately, they seem to be satisfied with just crawling to sit on the bench underneath the window by the table for now, and so he busies himself around the kitchen, getting the stove going with a bit of very quiet cursing, and by the time he gets startled by the sight of them _again_ when coming back from the pantry with the honey and milk, he's realized that this will take _a lot_ of getting used to.

“Come on, let's take these back upstairs,” he suggests gently, each boy wrapping his hands around his newly assigned mug it would seem, and when they begin sliding off the bench obediently, tiny bare toes fluttering to reach the floor, he gets probably the first productive idea of the day, and snatches the small ornate candlestick from the windowsill alongside a box of matches.

He lights it very cautiously on the table by the boys' bed, and sits down and watches them somewhat uneasily as they blow and sip on their milk, and return his staring with unnerving steadiness.

“What's wrong with your leg?” Fili's eyes dart to the cane at Bilbo's side, seemingly genuine curiosity, and he should probably just be glad at least one of them is talking.

“It's, uh... I had polio as a child. Do you know it? An illness.”

Kili stops drinking and looks at his brother, who shakes his head.

“Well, it's not nice at all,” Bilbo sighs, wondering whether he should be telling children this in the first place, “I spent an entire winter in bed, I remember. My parents were very worried. But it's fine, I'm fine now. Well... somewhat.”

To that, he receives no reply, and the boys simply finish their drinks, once again almost at the same time, and hand their mugs to him politely.

“Alright, you two, you should really try and get some sleep now,” Bilbo declares, “hopefully this light will help a little bit, eh?”

“No bedtime story?” Fili suggests, and Kili's eyes, the only part of his face not hiding underneath his blanket, look all pleading as well.

“Oh, I'm... I don't think I have... You know what,” Bilbo scratches his head, “I don't even know if I have any good storybooks in the house. And it's really, _really_ late. You'll help me look for some first thing tomorrow, alright? Pick out what you like best, yes?”

Fili merely nods, and Kili is already curling back to sleep, and so Bilbo just wishes them a tentative good night and makes his way out of the room.

An approaching storm is jumbling up the radio, and so he washes the mugs listening to the distant rolling of thunder, and double-checks that all the windows are latched before heading back upstairs – enduring the staircase about a dozen times more often than he'd fancy today, honestly – and approaching the boys' bedroom ever so quietly.

They're both already fast asleep, and so he blows out the candle, already making a note in his head to check for his supply of new ones tomorrow, because apparently they'll be needing those now, and his eyes fall on the two tiny peaceful sleeping faces, pale like the moon itself against Bilbo's mother's old bedsheets.

It really _is_ very quiet out here, and he can't help but wonder how long that will last. How many other children are falling asleep safe right now, and how many are there of those less fortunate than these two.

 _Right then,_ he decides, turning away and trying his damnedest not to make the old wooden floor creak, _certainly the strangest favor I've ever done for anyone._

 

-

 

The morning brings with it a sky swept clean after a storm they all happily slept through, cold air and muddy puddles all over Bilbo's backyard. The boys dash downstairs on their own after Bilbo walks into their room after he wakes up to find them already up and about, and he notes with some satisfaction that they are rather excited about breakfast – at least he can feed them right, if nothing else.

“What do you say we go for a walk in the village today?” he suggests, “the pantry needs restocking, and I have to stop by the post office because – oh, hey, Fili, where are you running off to? Hey!”

But there's no stopping the boy, he bolts and runs out of the kitchen, and before Bilbo knows what's what, he hears him stomping up the stairs.

“What's that all about?” he asks the younger boy, quite pointlessly, because he receives nothing but a shrug and a shy smile of a jam-covered mouth.

“Well, at least you like the toast,” Bilbo sighs, and sits down heavily at the table, just about to dig in as well when Fili comes barreling back, waving an envelope at him.

“What's this, then?” Bilbo quirks one eyebrow.

“It's from Uncle!” Fili exclaims, out of breath like he's just run a marathon, “I was supposed to give it to you when we first arrived but I forgot, I'm sorry...”

“Oh, hey, no, it's alright,” Bilbo smiles, “let's see here.”

The envelope bears the seal of the Army, all fancy cream-colored thick paper, but no writing on it, and he turns it over in his hands almost reverently, before using the closest clean butter knife to peel it open.

Out slides a neatly folded handwritten letter, and as Bilbo admires the stern cursive, he can sense the boys leaning in closer.

 

_London, 10 th September 1939_

 

_Dear sir,_

 

_through an agreement I was forced to make running short on time, you've been entrusted with the care of my nephews, Fili and Kili Durin, nine and six years of age respectively. We share a common friend, and even though my decision was not a matter of choice, but rather necessity, I trust him, and by relation, you, to take care of my only surviving family to your best ability._

_I'm shipping out overseas in two days' time, and it is my sincerest hope that the sheer distance between my nephews and the war front will be enough to keep them safe._

_Please contact me immediately upon their arrival, addressing the letter as follows:_

 

_Lieutenant Colonel Thorin Durin, Seaforth Highlanders, 6 th battalion, 152nd Infantry Brigade_

 

_I expect a swift update._

 

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

Bilbo blinks, once, twice, letting Fili pry the letter out of his hands. That's it? He doesn't know what he expected, but a _hint_ of emotion might have been nice. Some more information about the boys than their age – maybe Kili hates to eat his greens, or maybe Fili dislikes Maths, or maybe what happened to the rest of their family, or maybe _anything_ that would make _any of this_ any clearer.

But no. _I expect a swift update._ Hmm. Somehow, even though he never met the man and it's doubtful he ever will, Bilbo begins to slightly dislike him.

“Uncle Thorin is a soldier,” Kili declares then, through mouthful of toast, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but chuckles instead.

“He's the leader of the entire army,” Fili adds seriously, spreading more jam seemingly everywhere _but_ his toast.

“Oh, he is, is he? Is that what he told you, because I think it's just a part of it, in fact, but...”

“And he's really brave!” Kili exclaims with a fervor that's more than surprising considering those are some of his first words after a long day of frightful silence, “he's going to defeat all the bad men!”

Bilbo looks from their faces, brightened up in spades at the thought of their Uncle, to the letter itself, and he still can't quite put a finger on what bothers him about it, but he supposes it doesn't matter.

“Alright then,” he says firmly, “what do you say we write your brave Uncle Thorin back?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the German invasion of Poland on 1 September 1939, the British Expeditionary Force is sent to the Franco-Belgian border to mobilize and monitor the situation. Lt Col Thorin Durin, the commanding officer of one of the battalions within its 152nd Infantry Brigade, is among the first to arrive, having left England in a duty-fueled hurry. What awaits him is a very chaotic beginning of what everyone now knows will turn into a war unlike any other, and his only consolation is knowing his nephews – his only reason for still doing this in the first place – are safe back home.

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

Thorin clears his throat and resumes his determined march when he sees a number of soldiers curiously glancing his way, and his second in command matches his  stride , with an apologetic scowl.

“Yeah, not really,” he sighs, strong Glasgow accent somehow making the words sound even more desperate than they really are.

“How the hell do they expect us to be ready in time?” Thorin groans, noting with some annoyance that not even his shoes are what they used to be, persistent French mud soaking through their soles far too quickly for his liking.

“Eh, beats me,” Dwalin shrugs, but has the decency to look a bit ashamed under Thorin's glare, adding an unhappy: “ _Sir._ You're the one who's going to talk to Gort later, right. Maybe he'll actually have some insights.”

Thorin lets out a disgusted noise, and stops at the top of the ravine, near what was supposed to be his tent hours ago. A wind is building up, and the sky is heavily overcast, and the promise of rain hangs in the air – and ahead of them, the war effort is represented by people not knowing how to erect a camp that doesn't blow away with the first signs of the upcoming storm.

“Didn't France used to be a pretty country?” he asks Dwalin, who scoffs, scratching his beard.

“Maybe in the spring. That's when I'd always get drunk here, you know. Good times.”

_Good times._ If what Dwalin is saying is true, then they have much bigger problems than the Germans advancing, and the Russians deciding to wake up from their hibernation.

Like what they're going to fight all of them with once they inevitably clash.

The 6 th battalion is in full force here, he's made sure of that, and he will avoid letting fresh conscripts in for as long as he has to, but it won't make a difference if he doesn't have enough guns to put in his soldiers' hands, or vehicles to drive them around  with .

“I want a full weaponry approximation on my table tonight,” he grumbles, and Dwalin snorts.

“You don't even _have_ a table yet.”

“Well, then, get someone on that too, will you.”

“Consider it done,” Dwalin winks, and Thorin resists grunting out loud, about a hundredth time too many just today.

He watches his second in command march away, already ordering whoever he comes across into submission, and he makes a mental note to get him, get them both, a better coat. Dwalin has never looked too comfortable in a uniform of any kind, like they've always been too small on him, like he never should have left  his days of lumbering in the forests of  Scotland behind, and he wonders if that will ever change. Probably not, after all these years of service. It probably shouldn't, anyway.

“Yes?” he snaps entirely too harshly at the young private trotting up to him, and the man – boy, more like – actually stumbles, threatens to trip over his feet and go tumbling down the hill he just climbed, before regaining his balance.

“Um, uh...” he fumbles for words, and Thorin glares at him to remind him, which helps a little bit, and the kid straightens up, saluting him somewhat askew, declaring: “Sir! Mail for you, sir!”

Thorin's salute is weary at best, but the envelopes handed to him do lift his mood a fraction.

“Dismissed,” he waves the squirmy private off, and turns with his back to the wind, turning the envelopes over in his hands.

One is just from the office back home, documents approved and sealed, boring menial things that remind him nevertheless of the London he left behind, and so he tucks them into his coat swiftly, and pays more attention to the other letter.

The sender's address is written in neat handwriting that cannot feasibly belong to either of his nephews, but it bears their names nevertheless, and Thorin lets out a sigh of relief he didn't know he was storing for god knows how long.

_Oakenclough, Lancashire._ So they reached their destination just fine, and Thorin doesn't know why he doubted they would... He tears the envelope open and unfolds the paper,  and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he sees Fili's nice, but unmistakably laborious, handwriting,  crossed out words and letters repaired ten times over aplenty.

 

_Dear Uncle,_

 

_we are here in Mister Bilbo's house. It rains a lot. Kili and I have one big bed, and Mister Bilbo makes us hot milk with a spoon of honey in it before sleep, and leaves a candle burning just like Mum used to. He has a cane, for his leg, and he lets us listen to songs on his gramophone._

_Can I go to school here? Mister Bilbo says that I can sign in any time, and there's children of all different ages. I need to practice Maths._

_Please write back soon. How long will the war take?_

 

_Fili_

 

Thorin can't quite put a finger on it, but he doesn't necessarily feel very reassured after reading that.  A short chuckle escapes him when he turns the paper over, and finds a big 'HELO UNCEL' written in green crayon, alongside a drawing of what must be a house and a garden.

Attached is another, smaller, paper, covered in the same neat handwriting that the address on the envelope is written in.

 

_Dear sir,_

 

_I think it is only right that I send a small note of my own, even though your older nephew was adamant on writing the letter himself. They are both perfectly fine, and healthy, if a bit quiet still. In fact, I don't think Kili has said more than a couple of words since they arrived._

_Your first letter was a bit sparse regarding any information about them, and I wonder if you would mind telling me more – there is no guessing how long they will be staying here, and though I'm sure I will come to learn a great deal on my own, I would appreciate any and all information you can give me._

_Regarding Fili's interest in going to school, I understand they were home schooled back in London, but I'm sure you'll agree he might profit from spending his time with more children his own age, especially in this trying time._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

Thorin reads those last couple of lines over and over again, until the strange tension in his jaw transforms to an undefinable but unmistakable irritation.

“You!” he summons the first person so much as glancing his way, a young soldier he doesn't recognize, “get me a pen and paper, right now.”

The man trots away immediately, and Thorin rereads everything one more time, before stowing those letters away as well, and shoving his hands in his pockets.

The rain commences as a deceptively gentle pitter-patter, and he squares his shoulders, and glares at the miserable excuse for a mobilizing army before him with patent disapproval. It will be a very long winter.

 

-

 

The thing about northern winter is, it tends to want to reign over autumn long before her due time – the leaves of the trees have barely begun turning their bright yellows and oranges, and the mornings are already too chilly, early frost covering everything like a delicate veil, only thawing when the sun decides to do its job properly around noon.

Bilbo should be spending his time weeding his flower beds, and pondering the best time to plant garlic and whatnot, and instead, he has... _this._

The boys don't sleep in the morning, for example, like any other sensible person would do. For some reason, their internal clock is set to the same time as the chickens' in the backyard, which is to say the very first shy rays of sunshine finding their way through the curtains into their bedroom are more than enough to wake them up.

They are hungry _all the time,_ and Bilbo prides himself on his perfectly stocked pantry, indeed he does, more than enough to withstand the occasional teatime visit or two, but having to feed three mouths instead of one all of a sudden? A bit of a strain. There is _a reason_ why his pantry is always full, aside from a certain kind of satisfaction at the sight, after all – means he has to spend less time traveling for groceries, less time needlessly talking to people.

But the boys have a different idea altogether, of course.

“If it were up to them,” Bilbo shoots a careful look from the kitchen to the living room, where the two are sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace and... drawing, if he's not mistaken, “they'd march back to London tomorrow on their own. I'm afraid they're not exactly thriving here.”

His cousin Primula gazes at him curiously, kind brown eyes following his line of sight after that, and she smiles.

“You worry too much,” she counters gently, sipping on her tea, “they are _safe_ here, which is more than we can say for _anyone_ back in London. Have you heard the-?”

“I've heard,” Bilbo interrupts her hastily, both of them lowering their voices even more, so that the boys don't overhear anything, “I listen to the midnight reports after they go to sleep. Is it true what they say about the bombings?”

“How would I know?” she shrugs, “can't know until you're there, and I'm sure glad I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, the war can bloody well stay down south.”

Bilbo chokes on his biscuit a little bit – it's not often these days that he's reminded that his little cousin can have a bit of a foul mouth. But he can't really blame her – she always gets fired up when she's worried, and the threat of her brand new husband being conscripted and taken away from her any day now is very real.

“I'm sure the war will be long over by the time they remember us up here,” he attempts to reassure her, and her smile is tired at best.

“One can hope.”

They are interrupted by Fili padding into the kitchen, obediently carrying the dishes from the snack Bilbo let them eat in the living room, the plates just about licked clean, and Primula perks up, while the boy barely looks at them, his head hung shyly.

“Oh, Fili – hold on!” Bilbo calls after him when he's about to dash out of the kitchen again, “come here, you can meet your teacher! If you still want to go to school, that is.”

The boy's eyes widen in something akin to a fleeting excitement, perhaps, and he comes over a bit reluctantly.

“Hello, Fili,” Primula greets him, always miles better with children at any given day, “I'm Mrs Brandybuck, but you can call me Prim. I teach all the boys and girls in the village. I hear you'd like to go back to school?”

Fili peeps something that might be a quiet agreement, and Primula smiles broadly.

“Well, that's wonderful. You'll probably be smarter than a lot of the kids in my class – you see, we take in all ages, because there's so few of us here, but I'm sure we can find something new for you to learn.”

“But what about Uncle Thorin?” Fili frowns a little bit, looking to Bilbo now for an answer he doesn't really know he possesses.

“What – what about him?” Bilbo inclines his head.

“He hasn't written back yet, and I don't know if I can...”

“Oh, but of course you can,” Bilbo blurts out with a fervor that surprises even himself, “I'm sure we'll be hearing from your Uncle soon, and I don't see a reason why he'd disagree. He'll be very happy to hear you're learning new things, you know. Alright?”

“A-alright,” Fili smiles sheepishly, and when Bilbo attempts an encouraging grin of his own and a nod, he dashes out of the room, no doubt speeding to join his brother.

“Alright, that's settled then,” Prim declares with some satisfaction, “bring him by on Monday, eh? Don't worry about supplies, we have something to spare at school still, I think.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo sighs, “really.”

“No problem at all,” she nods, “right then, I should really get going. I'll see you after the weekend?”

“Mhm, we'll be there.”

“Bilbo,” she says kindly, though firmly enough for him to look up at her, “you're doing a good thing.”

She's staring at him as if she expects him to react a certain way, and he moves from smiling a bit uncertainly, to shrugging awkwardly.

“If you say so.”

 

-

 

_France, October 1939_

 

_Dear Fili and Kili,_

 

_I am very happy to hear from you, and my apologies if this letter takes long to reach you – they tell me getting mail across the sea is difficult for now, but that should improve soon._

_Are you both well? Are you provided for? If you dislike Lancashire for any reason, I can make arrangements for you to-_

 

“Honestly?!” Bilbo blurts out, and Kili gasps, hiding deeper under his duvet, while Fili merely makes a small sound of disapproval.

“Keep reading,” he pleads, and Bilbo sighs.

 

_If you dislike Lancashire for any reason, I can make arrangements for you to be relocated elsewhere. Just say the word, write to me truthfully._

_In the meantime, I take no issue with you going to school, Fili, I think it will be very good for you. Update me on your progress. Don't forget to behave, both of you, and be safe._

_I can't tell you exactly how long the war will last – nobody can at this point, I'm afraid. All we know is that winter is fast approaching, and we'd all rather spend it in the warmth of our own homes. We'll do everything in our power to make that happen. In the meantime, I look forward to hearing from you._

_With regards, your Uncle_

 

_~~Lt Col~~ Thorin_

 

Bilbo lets out a small chuckle at the 'Lt Col' being crossed out, as if the man remembered halfway through that he's not talking to his subordinates, but rather his little nephews, and he hands the letter over to Fili, paying attention to the second part of it, which is apparently... Yes, apparently addressed directly to him, not for the boys to read.

 

_Dear Mr Baggins,_

 

_while I appreciate your curiosity about my nephews, I am not entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing with you the intimate details of their past – all you need to know now is that it is not a particularly cheerful one. Their parents passed away not so very long ago, and while it has taken its toll on them, I assure you they are perfectly capable of normal everyday interaction._

_I only ask that you keep them safe and well fed, which is a service I sincerely hope you can perform, since your participation in the war effort itself is not an option, or so I'm given to understand._

_Update me as soon as you can._

_Sincerely,_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

Bilbo laughs about the letter then, and he's still chuckling over it hours later, snuggled in his bed and rubbing his stiff, aching leg absentmindedly while he tries to come up with the best response, when he catches some movement out of the corner of his eye.

His first thought is  _not the stray cats again,_ but then he  _actually_ looks, and sees a tiny pale face peeking into his bedroom in an almost reverent fright.

“Kili? Is that you?” he squints, taking off his glasses to focus better, and indeed, the boy is clutching onto the door frame like he's afraid to step over the threshold, and Bilbo winces at the sight of his bare feet.

“What's going on?” he asks in what he hopes to god is a non-threatening tone of voice, “come over here, don't be afraid. I can't really come to you right now, you see, my leg has other plans. Come on, don't worry.”

He extends his hand to him to support his argument, and after a bit of unsure staring, the boy walks over to the bed, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes – there are streaks of tears glistening on his cheeks, and Bilbo almost swears under his breath before he remembers his audience.

“Oh – what's wrong? ...Did you have a bad dream?” he takes a shot, and judging by the boy's face contorting in some amalgam of pain and residual fright, he's hit the nail on the head. And they say he can't handle children, hah.

“I see,” he sighs, padding the bed for Kili to climb on, “come on, come over here. Is your brother alright? Still asleep?”

The boy shrugs.

“Just as well. He'll come after you if he doesn't find you in there with him, right? Yes, I think he will. Alright, why don't you, um... Get those cold feet under the duvet, come on.”

Kili obliges, burrowing into the sheets like a mouse into its hole, and Bilbo scoots with some hardship to give him more space, rearranging the tray in his lap with the letter on it, as well as a blank sheet of paper waiting for the response.

“I'm thinking of what to write back to your Uncle,” he explains while Kili squirms next to him to make himself comfortable, “do you want to help me out?”

The boy sniffs, and for a moment, it looks like he might start crying again, but then he seems to decide otherwise, letting out a deep sigh entirely unlike his age, and Bilbo snickers, daring to gently ruffle his hair. It's a very high risk game, as far as he's concerned, since he knows next to nothing about making children feel safe and comfortable, but it seems to pay off, and Kili leans in closer, dragging the duvet up to his chin, like Bilbo has seen him do many times before.

“Alright then,” Bilbo declares, putting his glasses back on, “let's get started with this. Say, what can you tell me about your Uncle, hmm? What is he like?”

Large dark eyes watch his every movement curiously.

“He's really brave,” Kili mumbles quietly, tiny nose scrunching up as if he had to think about that really long.

“Hmm, yes, I remember you mentioning that already,” Bilbo chuckles, then continues to talk mostly to himself, somehow convincing himself that it'll help the boy as well if he appears calm, “but what is he _like?_ I'm sensing a bit of a paranoia, to be honest, is he like that? Paranoid?”

“What's that?” the boy peeps, voice muffled by the duvet he's now almost completely hidden under.

“Oh, it's when someone is very suspicious of others... doesn't matter. I think I should like to reassure him that you two are perfectly alright. You are, are you not? A bit spooked still, but that is to be expected. Alright then, here we go. _Oakenclough, Lancashire, November 2 nd... _or is it _3 rd _already? Is it after midnight? Ah, yes. There we are. _While I appreciate your discretion..._ Hah, yes, I think that's appropriate. Maybe you would like to add another drawing tomorrow, Kili, to soften the blow a little bit... Hmm?”

But one glance tells him that next to him, taking up so little space in Bilbo's spacious bed and clutching onto his duvet like a lifeline, the boy is already fast asleep.

 

-

 

“I hate this bloody weather!”

“Tell me about it! Can't remember the last time I lit my pipe somewhere dry, and I _wish_ that were a euphemism.”

Even the tent they rush into has a very... soaked quality to it, and Thorin and Dwalin both shed their caps and shake what water they can off the shoulders of their heavy coats, reciprocating the salutes of their men already present only very wearily.

It's been raining without pause for days now – in fact it seems like the closer they get to the border, the more adamant the weather is at getting in their way. Instead of trenches, they are now digging drains to keep the water out of them,  and Thorin doesn't really want to think about the upcoming winter, lest it cost him what little lukewarm resolve he has right now.

They relay the news to their subordinates to be distributed to the rest of the battalion – they will not be a part of the force sent to the Maginot line after all, at least not yet, and for now the orders are simply to stay put, since the army has yet to double in size if they want to make any sort of move – and it feels like a lifetime before they have some time to themselves after all, before they're assaulted by yet another late night meeting.

“Look, all I'm saying is, maybe it's a good think we haven't got our boys doing recon. I hear Montgomery's almost shot up an entire squad during friendly fire over a booby trap they set off by mistake, so...”

“Bloody hell,” Thorin snorts and winces in compassion.

“Yeah,” Dwalin sighs, stretching out his legs, muddy boots up on the nearest crate, “at this rate, our first casualty will be a friendly.”

“Well, that would set the mood for this entire theatre,” Thorin groans, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand to force some concentration back into his brain to tackle his letters, when the straining oiled fabric of the tent's entrance flaps in the wind, and yet another fussy young soldier enters – there are too many of those for Thorin's liking everywhere he looks these days, faces he doesn't remember seeing before, too young to be anywhere near his battalion.

“Mail for you, sir!” the kid announces, breathless, obviously in the middle of his rounds, dropping a rich stack of envelopes on Thorin's table and barely remembering to salute before he disappears into the dreadfulness outside to distribute the rest of the contents of his heavy bag. Thorin doesn't envy him in the slightest.

He sorts through the letters idly while Dwalin finally gets a chance to light his aforementioned pipe, and he feels a bit of warmth seeping back into his bones when he finds the envelope with his nephews' names on it.

 

_Oakenclough, 3 November, 1939_

 

_Dear Uncle,_

 

_I went to school for the first time today. Mrs Brandybuck is our teacher, and she's Mr Bilbo's cousin. There are only twelve children in the classroom, because we are a small village. I got 3 new books, 4 notebooks, 2 pens. Mr Bilbo says he will teach me to write better with them. Sorry for the ink stains._

_Are you cold? What do you eat for breakfast? Write back soon!_

 

_Fili + KILI HELLO_

 

Thorin chuckles softly – Kili's name is, yet again, in bright crayon, red this time, and the O and the end of 'hello' is just another L stopped in its tracks and repaired into the correct letter by a much more skilled hand than that of the boy. The rest of the paper belongs to a large painting of some sort of a car.

Included is one more paper, from the elusive 'Mr Bilbo' again, and Thorin shuffles in his chair, clearing his throat as he unfolds it, as if it needs any sort of special preparation.

 

_Dear Colonel Durin,_

 

_while I appreciate your discretion regarding your family's past, I feel like you've missed my point entirely, and very thoroughly. Figuring out that the boys were lonely, frightened and sad, was only a matter of looking at them, really. I do not mean to pry into any of your personal affairs, and I do not require you to give me a comprehensive overview of your family's history and tragedies._

_I'm merely invested in making the boys as comfortable as possible while they are here, which is something you might be able to help me with. How do they like their eggs? Are they allergic to anything? What are their favorite sweets, and what foods are they most likely to throw in my face?_

_Those are the questions I really seek answers for, you see. I might very well be the last person anyone would think of to take care of children, it's true, but I am determined to do my best. Which is anything any of us can do, especially these days, sitting in a trench or not._

_To that effect, we all hope you are doing well in yours, and if you need a good woolen scarf to keep you warm during the winter, just say the word, there's plenty of wool to go around._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

Thorin lets out a bark of laughter at that last sentence that surprises even him, and Dwalin looks up from his own reading.

“What is it? Are we getting more fake flags to wave around?”

“It's the boys,” Thorin smiles.

“Oh, aye, right! Are they alright? Where did you say they were staying? Up north – Lancashire?”

“Yeah. Some village called Oakenclough. Probably isn't even on the map.”

“Nice. Who are they staying with?”

“This... person,” Thorin shrugs, “a man living alone. A friend of mine recommended him, I didn't really have much time to pick and choose.”

“Hmm. Well, do they sound alright?”

“Yeah,” Thorin sighs, a smile out of nowhere tugging at his mouth as he rereads the largely silly letter, “I think they'll be just fine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right then, here we are with Thorin's side of the story! And more letters :) And Bilbo continuing to be awkward around the kids, but he'll come around. They all will, I think. The brief summaries at the beginning might be a good idea, I thought, to sort of establish the timeline of it all. I might be using some names of commanding officers and stuff just like I did in this chapter, so you guys let me know if you want me to start making footnotes about those, to explain what's going on even further. Oh, and ridiculously enough, the first casualty of the war on the side of the British WAS a friendly fire, and Oakenclough is a real tiny village in Lancashire, I thought it was fitting :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the winter of 1939, the British Expeditionary Force has mobilized in almost full strength, and the Maginot line, a long consecutive fortification at France's border with Switzerland, Germany and Luxembourg, benefits from its support as well. The war is in its first, anticipatory stage - the combatants take their time preparing for the inevitable offensive. Back home, the war effort is covered diligently, but many still fail to see the true implications of it. The most severe ones have yet to come, after all.

The first snow arrives in late November, and before they know it, the hills are all white and the frost paints delicate ornaments on the windowpanes in the mornings. It feels like Bilbo has barely finished winterizing his garden in time, and he's already having more firewood delivered from the lumber mill, and trying to figure out where to get new clothes for the boys, who appear to be vastly unequipped to deal with a northern winter.

That, however, doesn't quell their excitement for the snow in the least, and he couldn't keep up with them and their snowball fights and snowman building sessions even if he tried – he's glad to just release them at the hill behind the school, buy himself a cup of mulled wine one of the more proactive neighbors is selling from her stand, and hope that no one is planning on coming over and socializing.

This time last year, his biggest worry was baking Christmas candy, and the martens sneaking into the chicken coop, and here he is now, anxiously watching for the two blue hats among the litter of children, to make sure the boys haven't disappeared. He'd knitted those hats himself just the other day, alongside two much warmer scarves than any of that nonsense Fili and Kili brought with them from London, and if _that_ isn't a testament to his caretaking skills, then he doesn't know what is.

“Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins! There you are!”

He groans into _his_ scarf, a large bundle around his neck up to his nose, and curses his aching joints for sapping him of the ability to run away when it is most needed. For about three seconds, he ponders the possibility of simply playing dumb and hoping he'll be left alone, but no, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has always been too relentless for that.

“My god, but I haven't seen you in _ages!_ ” she exclaims, voice shrill enough to shatter windows better than any frost, “are you sure you shouldn't be hiding inside, on account of your illness?”

“Cousin Lobelia,” Bilbo turns to her with an amicable smile, albeit constructed under duress, “I might ask you the same thing – isn't the winter up here dangerous for your _lovely_ London frocks?”

Famous for her frivolous shopping sprees in the capital on her husband's money, Lobelia smooths down her highly impractical – and highly colorful – coat, and readjusts her hat, that seems to hold onto her curls by sheer willpower alone.

“Nonsense, nonsense. I'm perfectly fine, just picking up Lotho. Say, have you seen him anywhere?”

Bilbo, who distinctly remembers the boy running up and down the hill with his little wooden sleigh, perfect little outfit sodden from head to toe in a way that's sure to give his mother heart palpitations, feigns ignorance and concern in one shrug.

“No idea.”

“Hmm,” Lobelia sizes him up and down, scrunching up her nose, presumably from the cold, but as it is, it just looks like she's caught some particularly unpleasant scent.

“Well, is it true that you've been taking care of two children?”

Only she could ask that question like she hasn't been snooping around from day one.

“Yes, since September,” Bilbo says somewhat wearily, “they're very nice boys.”

“What's become of their family?”

“War,” Bilbo replies simply, staring firmly at the hill ahead, giving her as few clues as humanly possible.

“Hmm,” she muses suspiciously, “perhaps they'll be reason enough for you to come to the Christmas dinner this year, then?”

Bilbo almost snorts in laughter before stopping himself, and arching his eyebrows.

“Do you think? I'm not sure I want to expose them to the wonder that is the entire clan arguing over four different kinds of potato salad.”

“Oh come now,” Lobelia scoffs, “it's been _years_ since you last made an appearance. People are beginning to wonder about you, you know?”

“Wonder _what_ about me?” Bilbo says absentmindedly, raising his hand somewhat tentatively and waving for the boys to notice him, as they seem to be searching the crowd, done with playing for now.

“You yourself must admit you've become a bit odd.”

“Odd, you say,” Bilbo repeats dryly.

“Unsociable. Come now, this might very well be the last big dinner we have for a while now, who knows how long this war will last. And whom it will take away from us.”

Bilbo has no patience for the largely superficial emotion in her voice, but she does have _some_ point.

“I'll think about it – oh, hello, you two, there you are. Did you have fun?”

The boys' cheeks are whipped red by the frost and the wind, and their knees are sodden, as well as... well, almost all the rest of them, but their eyes are gleaming bright, and they nod enthusiastically.

“Well, that's good-” Bilbo smiles, but is interrupted by what can only be described as a high-pitched whine of a cat having its tail stepped on – Lobelia's idea of conveying her adoration.

“Well aren't you two just the sweetest!” she dotes on the boys, “I'm Bilbo's cousin Lobelia, hi!”

Fili manages a semi-polite smile, but Kili doesn't even try, he just hurries to Bilbo's side and grabs at his sleeve.

“It's alright, Kili... Well then. You don't have to say hi, boys.”

“Oh, but Bilbo!” Lobelia gasps in exaggerated indignation, “isn't he just the rudest? How you can stand to stay with him, I'll never know. Here, these are for my son Otho, but I'm sure he won't mind sharing. He told me all about you, Fili, don't you sit next to each other in school?”

The boys' eyes light up at the sight of the paper bag filled with who knows what sort of candy, and Bilbo sighs, allowing them to each have some.

“Alright, alright, off we go now.”

“Now, now, hold on, cousin,” Lobelia just never stops, “how would you boys like to go to my house for a big Christmas dinner, hm? It must be so sad, spending Christmas away from your family, and-”

“ _Alright,_ okay, that's it,” Bilbo groans, “come on, you two, we're going home. It was nice seeing you, Lobelia.”

The boys let themselves be steered away more or less obediently, suckling on their hard candy, and Lobelia _might be_ shouting something flustered and offended after him, but he's long since learned to filter that.

“I'm sorry for that,” he says, “cousin Lobelia is a bit of a handful.”

“Lotho steals pencils from other kids,” Fili adds his piece, “and snacks, sometimes, too.”

“He does? Really?” Bilbo half-laughs, letting Kili's tiny hand slip into his own, “well, I can't say I'm surprised, really, with the example his mother is setting...”

“What?” Fili peeps curiously.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

It's not a terribly long walk from the school back to Bilbo's house – or at least it isn't for someone who doesn't need a cane to get around. But the boys seem to be content with just running around and ahead of him, trying to make the most perfect snowball, or picking up sticks and drawing in the snow, Kili, who looks like a ball of fluff in all his layers, always clumsily emulating his brother, and if they disappear ahead too quickly, they always come back.

Bilbo is glad to let them, because at least that means they'll sleep like logs tonight.

It's odd, he thinks, that even though the world seems to be hurtling into hell, his own little world right here has sort of brightened up ever since their arrival. Not that he'd be admitting that to anybody, but it's true. He can't remember the last time he willingly left the house and walked so far away on his own, and if someone were to tell him a year ago – no, just a couple of months ago – that he'd be fine with sharing his house, and his food, and his _yarn_ , with two little boys, he'd probably laugh, and wouldn't stop laughing for a good long while.

“Mister Bilbo, is that the postman?” Fili hollers, interrupting his train of thought, and Bilbo looks ahead to the end of the narrow road where his gate is, and apparently also Mister Bolger the postman struggling with its latch.

“Now, now, you know I can't keep up with you!” he calls after the boys, but it's in vain – they dash ahead, all but jumping up and down at the postman's side like two excited puppies, and he greets them, somewhat exasperated, and waves to Bilbo when he notices him limping close.

“Master Bilbo,” he sniffs, having spent the better part of the day on his rounds by the looks of him, “are you sure you should be walking around like this? How are you feeling?”

“Goodness, I'm perfectly fine,” Bilbo dismisses him, “you, however, you look like you could use a hot cuppa. Won't you come inside with us?”

“I'd love nothing more,” the postman sighs, “but my bag is still half full and it'll be dark soon.”

“Perhaps some other time, then.”

“Perhaps. Oh, yes, this is yours, there you go.”

The boys are all but bouncing up and down by that point, and Bilbo accepts the envelopes from the man, and ushers them inside, even though they'd rather he read the letter right there and then in the freezing cold, no doubt.

It is an ordeal, ordering them to get out of their damp clothes and into dry warm ones, and making sure they don't catch aflame as they try and help him rekindle the fireplace, but finally they are seated at the table obediently, steaming mugs in their hands, and Bilbo opens the – somewhat muddy, he notices – long expected envelope.

 

_France, 23 November, 1939_

 

_Dear Fili and Kili,_

 

_it is indeed very cold here in France. Winter has found us early, and we are doing our best to stay warm. Since you asked, my breakfast usually consists of bread and butter with jam, some vegetables if we're lucky. It's been some weeks since I ate my last hard-boiled egg, and I miss it dearly._

_Fili, I am very happy to hear you like it at school. How is your math? I think your writing is very good, you just need to practice holding the pen lightly. I'm certain Mr Baggins can help with that._

_Be good, both of you, and just in case we don't get the time to exchange more letters, merry Christmas to both of you. I wish I were able to send you presents, but I'm afraid the front isn't very exciting when it comes to that. At least someone has decided to write a little note as well, see below._

_With regards, your Uncle_

 

_Thorin_

 

Underneath all that is a note written in such abominable chicken scratch that Bilbo has a difficult time deciphering it, but Fili gets the brightest grin on his face when Bilbo reads that it's from a Mr Dwalin, and he yanks the letter out of Bilbo's hands to stare at it.

After some asking and convincing, Bilbo learns that Dwalin is a friend of Uncle Thorin's, who would come by their house and carry them around on his shoulders, and he's 'really really big like a bear', Kili explains, illustrating just how tall with standing on his tiptoes and fluttering his fingertips as high up in the air as he can.

 

_Dear rascals,_ Dwalin writes,  _your uncle is right, it's really_ (that word is there to replace the word 'sodding', crossed out many times)  _cold in here. And muddy. We spend every day sloshing through mud, and shaking out mud from our boots in the evening. I'm almost sure we had mud for dinner last night. I hope you two aren't eating mud, and that you're behaving yourselves. Your Uncle and I are going to try and end this war soon._

_Take care, you two_

 

_Dwalin_

 

Bilbo chuckles as the boys giggle and reminisce about Uncle Dwalin, but he feels a tinge of some sort of foreign sadness as well, though he's not entirely sure where that came from. He turns the papers over in his hand, and only finds a short note addressed to him this time, written as if in a great haste, and  _that_ shouldn't disappoint him either, but there he is.

 

_Dear Mr Baggins,_

 

_I have no doubt your best is more than enough to provide a safe temporary home for my nephews. To my knowledge, neither of them is allergic to anything in particular, though they dislike greens, but I suppose that is to be expected from children their age._

_Thank you for your offer – I might even consider it, as the winter is harsher by the day, and proper woolen scarves are very low in stock._

_In the meantime, take care of them,_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

Well, at least it makes him smile.

 

-

 

“Merry Christmas!”

“Oh god, is it? Is it already?”

“Nah, one more week to go,” Dwalin grins, bringing a rich waft of snow in with him, “but with these new requisitions coming in early, it might as well be.”

“Do we get the guns?” Thorin sighs, pushing his crate-chair away from his crate-desk, and rubbing his eyes.

“Some of them just arrived, yeah. Alongside a pile of kids. We've been promised to get more of both, soon.”

“Excellent,” Thorin groans, “merry Christmas to us.”

“Right? Oh, hey, you haven't eaten your chocolate yet? Mind if I finish that for you?”

“Didn't you trade your cigarettes for like four more bars yesterday?” Thorin inclines his head.

“Aye, that I did,” Dwalin grins happily, shuffling through his documents, “those kids don't know the real joys of wintertime.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you can't have mine. I'm thinking I'll send it to the boys,” Thorin declares, turning the small bar wrapped in brown paper over in his hands.

“Well, aren't you the nicest,” Dwalin snorts, “don't you think they have enough of that back home? Who knows if it'll even make it across the sea? Or even out of the camp? You've heard what they say about the mailmen checking everything, right? And by checking I mean stacking rations while there's still time.”

“Well, aren't you a bundle of holiday cheer on this fine evening,” Thorin grumbles, resorting to _his_ favorite wintertime joy and lighting his pipe, “I'll just mark it top secret or something.”

“Abusing power so early on, duly noted,” Dwalin snickers, slumping on his spring bed and burying his face in the folds of his coat and scarf.

“I wish I had something to throw at you,” Thorin remarks, getting up from his makeshift work desk and retiring to his bed as well.

“Too cold to take off your shoes?” Dwalin suggests.

“Don't tempt me.”

He switches off the oil lamp and their tiny dug out bunker sinks into darkness – Thorin burrows underneath his slightly dank blanket, and tries his damnedest to space out the sounds from outside, thousands of people up and about, vehicles battling with the mud now frozen into rock, the steady noise of a war being born.

“It's cozy, this,” Dwalin points out, the words muffled as his face is no doubt buried under his blanket as well, “almost wish we could stay here.”

“Change your mind about Maginot?” Thorin mumbles.

“The men have. Getting lazy.”

Above them, a familiar rattling wheeze of airplanes echoes faintly as they speed towards Belgium, and when Thorin opens his eyes, he sees Dwalin's gleaming in the darkness as well.

“I wouldn't worry too much,” he says, “I'm sure we'll all see some action soon.”

 

The mornings are always miserable, and the cold seeps into their bones quicker than the mud manages to flood the hastily dug trenches. It seems like a shame, Dwalin remarks to him, that they construct all this only to abandon it a week later, but the truth of the matter is, it gives them something to fall back to, should they ever need it. Building for the future, provided there is one. No one knows how strong the Germans really are, yet, and they're not in the mood for making assumptions.

Thorin spends the entire day being driven around and trying to create some sort of map of the area in his head, but it's like trying to sketch a labyrinth. _Here there be dragons,_ someone is going to scribble over the vague area now covered in muddy foxholes, and it will ring truer than any of them would prefer.

The news from the freshly finished Maginot line trickle slowly, but only confirm the general state of sickening anticipation – a surprise attack is almost out of the question now, but that doesn't mean everyone still doesn't fear the inevitable. The French have almost finished mobilizing, and the logistic issues with shipping the remainder of the BEF overseas have been resolved as well, it seems, and so the only thing remaining is to actually test the presumed effectiveness of all of it.

Thorin knows for a fact that the bulk of the army is still behind them, that his battalion is among the very first to pave the way closer to Belgium, with many, many more to come, and yet as he watches the effort, scans the young faces of soldiers pretending like the weather and the difficult work doesn't get to them, sees them clutching shovels instead of guns, sees them writing letters home with wet, shaking, muddy fingers, he can't help but think this can never be enough. It can never be enough, not in time.

He gives the first official speech that day, to his officers and lieutenants, summarizing the developments so far, and the plans to come, which is mostly along the lines of 'don't freeze over the winter', and his words feel empty, they don't ring true to his own ears. But perhaps that's just him – everyone else appears fresher, more convinced, more determined.

 

_Dear Uncle!!!_ , the boys write, on neatly lined school paper this time, Fili's handwriting surrounded and succumbing to Kili's random crayon scribbles,  _it's almost Christmas! Mr Bilbo has ~~8~~ 9 kinds of candy, but we have to wait for Christmas Day to eat them. One day in the morning there was snow up to the windows of the greenhouse in the garden! We built a really tall snowman and gave him an old blue coat that Mr Bilbo found, and we call him Uncle Thorin. He is in front of the house by the gate. He's really brave, like you. You don't have to send us presents, you can't shop there. But Mr Bilbo ~~nit~~ knitted us scarves, and he said he would teach me and I will make one for you too. But we can't send any candy, because Mr Bilbo says it would get crushed before it reached you._

_Merry Christmas, Uncle!_

 

_Fili +++ Kili_

 

It's pitch black outside again even though it isn't even past five, and snow has begun to fall again, big, heavy flakes descending almost lazily and hissing quietly when they land, and Thorin stands with his back turned to the camp, the entirety of this miserable corner of France, and his fingers are clutching the letter unnaturally hard, like a lifeline.

He reads the words time and time again, fingertips trailing over the ruined texture of the paper where Kili drove his crayon down too hard, no doubt squeezing it in his fist, and there's a heaviness bearing down on his heart that he doesn't remember feeling ever since... Well, in a while.

He doesn't even remember to turn the letter over for the longest time, and when he finally does, he discovers a short bit to him from Mr Baggins, and reads it curiously.

 

_Oakenclough, 13 December_

 

_Dear sir,_

 

_I've come to discover that the only thing your nephews seem to be allergic to, is silence in the early hours of the morning. Other than that, I am happy to report they seem to be thriving, despite my utter lack of knowledge in the child care department. I might be taking them to a family gathering on Christmas Eve, but only because I think they deserve to eat big for once. I promise I shall keep nosy relatives out of your family's business._

_The offer for knitted goods still stands – in fact, the boys seem to be enjoying theirs. No idea how shipping would work, but who knows. Stay safe?_

_With regards_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

The question mark behind 'stay safe' makes him chuckle for whatever reason – it's as if it's a kind of an ordeal for Mr Baggins to decide to be courteous after all – but before the warmth from it can spread from his heart to the rest of his body, someone is already calling his name outside, and the sounds rush back in, the slosh of tires ruining the perfect fresh snow, the wind beginning to howl.

He tucks the letter into his breast pocket, telling himself to find some sort of container for all of them soon, and squares his shoulders against the ruthlessness outside.

 

-

 

“Come on, Bilbo, we'll be late!”

“Well it's not like I can exactly dash out of the house at full speed, now, can I,” Bilbo grumbles, readjusting his bowtie for about the hundredth time as the boys bounce excitedly by the door – blissfully ignorant of what awaits them, they are just thrilled to be in a big house with a lot of people and a lot of food, it seems.

They are dressed in their finest little suits that they'd had packed with them when they arrived, and that Bilbo has deemed too impractical until now – but he looks at their perfect little ties, and the subtly checkered fabric, and wonders how much health they'd actually been born into back in London, and who it was that lovingly picked these out for them, and hoped to see them wear them under much happier circumstances, no doubt.

They make it out of the house eventually, and Cousin Primula and her husband are already waiting for them with their horse-drawn sleigh – _that_ , the boys are positively _elated_ about, and Bilbo must admit it is a rather charming sight. Drogo has already decked the carriage and their pony's harness in jingle bells, and there are furs and blankets waiting for them in there. During the warmer months, the sleigh is replaced by a carriage, but it is in the winter that Drogo Brandybuck's livelihood really looks its best.

They chat and laugh and mildly insult their hosts on the way to their house on the other side of the village, closer to the center where buildings are not as scattered and lonely, and the boys hold onto the railings and look on at the passing countryside with wonder, and almost fall out of the sleigh countless times, and Bilbo must admit, maybe this was not such a bad idea.

 

...Which he promptly disregards when they actually do enter the Sackville-Bagginses' residence, and are greeted with an onslaught of relatives, some not even from around here, hell, some of them not even relatives, but all of them nosy and incredibly blunt, a defining characteristic of a large part of the extended family.

Bilbo has a difficult time keeping track of the boys, as Fili recognizes a number of children he knows from school, and immediately takes off running away with them, Kili following him a bit frightened, but no less determined, but they do rejoin him for the actual Christmas dinner itself, which Bilbo is glad of. He's not particularly proud of using a pair of children as his escape from politely conversing with people he can't bring himself to care about, but that won't stop him anyway.

If Lobelia excels at anything, though, it definitely is creating a feast, and Bilbo urges the boys to eat their body weight's worth in potatoes and baked chicken, and side salads and gravy, and vows to do the same himself, promptly ignoring any attempts others might have to start another conversation with him _when he's eating._

Which is probably why he doesn't notice the glances shot their way, and the muttered words and heads shaken in disagreement, at first.

“What is it, Lobelia?” he says inappropriately loudly, probably fueled by the numerous glasses of punch he's consumed already, making her startle like a spooked hen, “I know you were probably hoping I wouldn't come, but I'm behaving myself, I promise. Or at least I think I am.”

Next to him, Cousin Primula half giggles, half gasps in surprise, and Bilbo grins at that. Meanwhile, Lobelia rolls her eyes in what she hopes is a dignified manner, and rises from the table on her end of the room, crossing the distance followed by her judgmental entourage. Kili chooses that exact moment to request to be seated in Bilbo's lap, and Bilbo can only hope, hauling him up with some hardship, that that'll be enough to quell her usual snippy remarks somewhat.

“Well, Bilbo,” Lobelia starts broadly, in a very serious tone of voice that promises a lot of emotional extortion, and she sits heavily across from him, other aunties flocking around them, “what is your take on the war, hm? I know _you_ cannot participate, but surely you wish it were over soon?”

“Surely I wish...? Of course I wish it were over soon,” Bilbo frowns, and feels the gaze of the boys on him, curious and anticipatory, “who doesn't?”

“Of course, of course. The Germans should be pushed swiftly and relentlessly, that's what my husband always says. I only pray that they don't take him away from me. But Bilbo, spending his life all alone, and finally getting some excitement, eh? Such adorable little nuggets, you are.”

“Lobelia...” Bilbo warns.

“Did you know,” Lobelia ignores him, and _that_ tone of voice can only usher in more misery, “that Bilbo was such an awful hermit before he met you boys? My goodness, you wouldn't see him for weeks, sometimes!”

“Must you be so nasty all the time, Lobelia?” Prim butts in sharply, even though the amusement is clear in her eyes, as well as those of her husband, holding her hand tightly.

“Nasty? I'd think it's more nasty to disregard your relatives worrying about you, is it not? You boys are very lucky, very lucky indeed that he deigns to share something from that famed pantry of his with you...”

“Honestly!” Bilbo exclaims, and sees his annoyed anger mirrored in the eyes of Prim and Drogo, even though everyone else is laughing in delight. Kili squirms in his lap, and Bilbo squeezes his shoulder absentmindedly, in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. Fili is staring at Lobelia one moment, at Bilbo himself the second.

“All I'm saying is, it will be a relief for you _and_ your pies if the war ends early, will it not, cousin,” Lobelia declares perfectly sweetly, but the venom behind those words stings all the same.

“Yes, though I expect you and your wardrobe will breathe a sigh of relief as well,” Bilbo retorts harshly, and the true petty maliciousness of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins flashes in her eyes for a split second, before she smiles her saccharine smile, and crosses her arms.

“You've always been a mean, unsociable person, Bilbo Baggins,” she sneers, and Fili's eyes grow about three sizes, and he looks to Bilbo for explanation.

“You're repeating yourself, Lobelia,” he sighs.

“Maybe, but you haven't changed one bit. You would have made a terrific soldier, if the war was fought with insults, you know. It's a shame you're a cripple.”

Next to him, Prim gasps in a nasty shock, and Bilbo leans back, a heaviness settling on his shoulders and in his gut unlike anything he's felt in a while.

“What's a cripple?” Kili asks innocently into the stunned silence.

“Watch your words, Lobelia,” Bilbo says slowly, calmly, “the way you get fired up, people might discover you don't actually have a posh Londoner accent.”

He savors the look of disgust on her face, and then he shoos Kili off his lap, standing up laboriously.

“Come on, boys, we're going home. Thank you for the chicken, it was delicious.”

They don't even protest much, following him out of the room swiftly, leaving Lobelia and her stench behind.

“She's mean,” Fili remarks, slipping into his coat and helping Kili into his.

“Yes, she is. I'm sorry for that. We won't be coming back here again, alright?”

“Alright,” Fili agrees solemnly.

“Hold on! Wait for us!”

That's Prim and Drogo, apparently in a hurry to leave as well, and Bilbo is torn between relieved and annoyed at the sight of them – arguing with Lobelia and her like always takes a lot out of him, and even though he likes Prim's side of the family much more, he's swiftly becoming too sullen to talk to anyone.

“We'll give you a ride home,” Drogo smiles warmly, helping his wife into her coat.

“Yes, that's quite enough Christmas cheer for us,” she adds.

“Oh no, you don't have to, it's out of your way,” Bilbo protests feebly, but he sees the way Kili's movements have become even more clumsy with tiredness, and his own joints are beginning to bug him with a dull, persistent ache that only a good lie-in can fix.

“Letting you limp home would only give her more fodder,” Prim declares, and before he knows it, Bilbo watches the stars silently, while Kili and Fili doze off on either side of him, and the soft tinkling of jingle bells almost lulls him to sleep as well.

“I almost forgot,” Prim whispers as the sleigh turns the curve of the hill atop which Bilbo's house is waiting, “give this to them tomorrow.”

She pushes a paper bag into his arms, and in it he sees the vague outlines of a number of presents.

“Oh, goodness, you didn't have to-”

“It's alright,” she squeezes his arm briefly, “they deserve nice things. There's something in there for you, too.”

“You are... Thank you,” Bilbo sighs, burying his nose in his scarf.

“Merry Christmas,” she smiles as Drogo chirrups softly at the horse to halt.

“And to you,” Bilbo murmurs, and goes about waking the boys as gently as possible, almost lost underneath all their blankets.

They make their way back into the dark, cool house slowly, all of them, and Bilbo ushers them to sleep first of all, even though his back protests something fierce as he climbs the stairs. All in all a successful night.

They climb into their big bed obediently, always so tiny in it, and Bilbo lights their window candle for them, and when he turns back to wish them a good night, Kili is fast asleep already, but Fili's tired eyes are peering at him.

“Merry Christmas,” Bilbo smiles wearily, and Fili sniffs.

“Is it true what that Mrs Lobelia said?” he asks in a strained, tired voice, and Bilbo's gut sinks. “Do you not like having us around?”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, “oh, no, Fili, it's not that.”

He crosses the distance to the bed somewhat stiffly, and sits down slowly, reaching out to pat the boy's hand awkwardly.

“I'm just not used to having children around. Or anyone, really,” he starts clumsily, “but I don't – it's fun, I promise it is. You are very nice boys, and I wouldn't change it for the world, alright? You can believe me.”

“Alright,” Fili mumbles, and it's honestly difficult to say if he's just tired, or if he doesn't believe Bilbo's words at all.

“Alright then,” Bilbo reaches to ruffle his hair gently, “go to sleep now, and there will be some presents waiting for you in the morning. And more pie.”

Fili chuckles weakly, and closes his eyes, burrowing into the pillow.

“Is Uncle Thorin getting presents too?” he exhales, and Bilbo scrunches his eyes close – he is _so_ not good at comforting, well, anyone.

“Let's hope so. We'll write him another letter tomorrow, alright?”

“M-hm,” the boy peeps, and he's asleep about two seconds later.

 

It has started snowing again by the time Bilbo makes his way into his own bed, wearing several layers more than usual and listening miserably to the howling of the wind in the rafters, about a dozen winters too late for a thorough repair. He can't really bring himself to feel tired yet, as the bitter little row with Lobelia still makes his gut crawl, and so he sips on his tea, a tad sullen, and finally resorts to putting his glasses on and reading – only as he opens the drawer of his bedside table, he sees the envelope containing the letter from Colonel Durin that he meant to present to the boys as a surprise tomorrow.

He ponders his options for a moment, but at last he decides to just give in to that strange curiosity and open it. The boys' uncle writes encouraging words, and reassuring words, and half-truths that no child will be able to spot, and Bilbo sets that part of the letter aside, more interested in... yes, the part addressed to himself.

 

_Dear sir,_

 

_I don't know what drives me to admit this, but the wait is long and tiresome here in France, and I find myself in need of at least some semblance of control, which writing seems to provide right now. I might as well practice for when I run out of pipe tobacco._

_The truth is, your caretaking skills, non-existent as they are, might still be better than my own. The boys' parents passed not so very long ago, and ever since they were placed under my care, I've found myself at a loss of how to provide for them beyond the obvious material needs._

_One thing I do know for certain, is that they are quite adept at handling nosy relatives – they've been the subject of heedless adoration from our extended family ever since they were born._

_But I find myself rambling, and believe it or not, blank paper is a rare commodity in the trenches. Regarding the matter of shipping anything more than a sheet or two, I am told it will be increasingly difficult, but not impossible. I can pull some strings on my end, as with that bar of chocolate I hope has reached you, but I'm afraid I can't predict how willing the post will be on your side of the ocean._

_Anyhow, have a merry Christmas, and thank you._

_With regards,_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

Bilbo has the warmest smile on his face after reading that, and it is true that the man somehow saw fit to use more paper to write to him than his own nephews, and Bilbo doesn't quite know what it is,  but it's as if he's getting the first ever peek of the actual human behind those words, far on the other side of the sea. Sitting somewhere cold and getting snowed on, probably, in way more immediate danger than Bilbo suspects any of them back here can really fathom, and yet he talks about pulling strings to send his boys a military rationed bar of chocolate... It's oddly charming.

After some thinking, and a bit of rearranging, he finally picks up a pen, and as the distant tolling of the church bell down in the village announces that Christmas Eve has now officially become Christmas Day, and the snow piles up behind his windows, surely high enough by the morning that he will have to ask the neighbor to help with shoveling it, Bilbo writes and writes.

 

_Dear sir,_

 

_it is true that your nephews proved far more skilled at withstanding the incessant rudeness of_ my  _relatives, and they aren't even a part of the family. After the night we just had, I would be the first one to freely admit that I might have lost my cool..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya guys! This one took a bit long, and I apologize, but here we are at last :) These first three chapters were a sort of set up for the story, and from now on, the time skips will be greater. I won't go so far as to say that it'll be one chapter per one year of war, but this fic would have a billion of them if I were to write every single word of the correspondence going on :D Oh, and the titular flowers will finally make an appearance in the next chap, too ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British Expeditionary Force approaches the Franco-Belgian border cautiously at first, then exceedingly quicker as the Germans make their first move, endangering the French. The first wave of the attack is pushed back, but the Germans surprise by penetrating and crumbling the Maginot line anyway, entering France in full force and soon forcing the Allies to retreat quicker than they came. The British are cornered and forced to come up with a plan for evacuation, which, in retrospect, is just as botched up as all the rest of their efforts in the ultimately defeated France.  
> Meanwhile, to boost morale in the homeland, their bravery is praised and their many mistakes overlooked, and the war isn't destined to reach as far as Oakenclough for quite some time yet.

_Oakenclough, 12 March 1940_

 

_Dear Uncle,_

 

_there's still snow here, but Bilbo says it will be gone soon. It's warmer now, and we saw a flower, and it was yellow, and Bilbo says it means that spring is coming quick. Is it warm in France? We can't wait for you to come back. School is fun, and Kili wants to go too, but Bilbo says he has to wait a while longer, until next year. We listen to the radio a lot and there's nice songs, but Bilbo won't let us listen to the adult things in the evening. He says it's upsetting. Do they talk about you on the radio? Don't let the bad guys hurt you._

 

_Fili + KILI WANT SCHOOL PLEASE_

 

Thorin's eyes flicker over his nephew's handwriting, pleased to note it's gotten much neater, but his main interest, he's reluctant to admit, is the other part of the letter, written in skilled cursive. He barely notices his driver jumping onto the seat next to him, and only grunts his vague agreement when he's asked something along the lines of a confirmation of their destination, already engrossed in reading.

 

_Dear Sir,_

 

_I think it's necessary to point out that I've never been much of a handyman – don't quite have the posture for it. So when you suggested I try taking a look at the rafters, it was met with much amusement from both me, and anyone else I shared that plan with. I did manage to get help, though, and it seems the howling wind will no longer be disturbing the boys' sleep. But then, it is always windy here in Lancashire, so we shall see._

_They seem to be getting used to it all – don't get me wrong, I firmly believe they'd still like nothing less than for you to come and take them back home, but they are more at peace with the idea of waiting for you. I don't think they'll ever stop asking when that day will come, though. It's only been a couple of months, but that's an eternity in a child's life._

_On that note, the last thing you should be worrying about is them thinking you a bad parental figure – you might not_ be _their parent, but the love with which they speak of you is indication enough that you're doing your job of replacing them just fine. For their sake, I hope this blasted war ends soon. Even though the restored quiet in the house might take some getting used to._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

Thorin doesn't realize he's smiling until he's automatically responding to something his subordinate is talking about, and he stuffs the letter in his coat somewhat hastily, but the fact remains that his spirits have been lifted a miniscule amount – quite an achievement, considering... well, everything that surrounds them.

Even despite the constant dreary drill of war, like the incessant, annoying creaking of an ancient machine someone forgot to oil, its cogs only turning with much hardship, Thorin has been able to find some pleasure in reading these letters, and even, without really noticing, succeeded at some point to strike up a semi-polite conversation from afar with a man he's likely to never meet.

Obviously they still don't know a thing about each other, aside from sharing a disgust for nosy relatives, and love for pipeweed, but it doesn't seem to matter.

Bilbo describes little things, mundane things, from creaking rafters to experimental recipes, from the books in his library to the seeds waiting to be planted in his garden, and Thorin finds it helps keep his mind on track. Reminds him of home, not in an unbearably painful way, but rather gently, _there's your purpose for doing this._

The man suffered from polio as a child, and it has left him dependent on a cane for the entire rest of his life, and he's barely ever left his home village, even though he does appear very well read and knowledgeable – and all in all, Thorin and him couldn't be more different, and yet he's compelled to find out more.

Bilbo doesn't talk much about the situation back home, and they don't have many other ways of finding out about it – they're told to bolster their men's morale by reminding them what they're fighting for, but that would actually require some fighting to happen first, not that Thorin is eager for it. The entire tactic of this war could be described as one big waiting game, and even though he's not the only one to have complained about the lack of offensive, they're still just sitting around waiting for the Germans to strike first. _Officially_ they're traveling to Belgium to meet the threat head on, but he's been at this too long to smell reluctance when it's around the war table with him.

Somewhat displeased, he stares at the date on the new letter – it's almost a month later now, April, and it's definitely gotten warmer, he'll have to tell the boys that – before making a mental note to write back as soon as he has the time.

Meanwhile, there's a war effort to advance.

 

-

 

Bilbo thinks that if the war doesn't kill him, the hay fever surely will. He's had it ever since he was a child, an unfortunate outcome of his poor immunity getting basically ground to dust by his encounter with polio, and every spring as things start blooming, it comes to greet him again, a runny nose and prickling eyes, just to remind him that it's not going anywhere, ever.

“Are you sick?” Fili asks him curiously over breakfast, though he barely lifts his eyes from his writing, concentrating hard even now.

“In a manner of speaking,” Bilbo sniffs, “you know you don't have to do your homework right now, I'm actually an avid fan of doing absolutely nothing on weekends.”

“It's not homework,” Fili declares seriously, “I'm writing a book.”

“You're – are you? That's very impressive. What's the book about?”

“Is it about Uncle?” Kili leans in closer, almost spitting crumbles all over Fili's work, and his brother shoos him off.

“It's about a soldier,” he states seriously, “maybe I'll make him look like Uncle.”

“You should, you should do it!” Kili exclaims excitedly, and Bilbo motions for Fili to put the notebook away before it gets doused in milk, or tea, or the unfortunate combination of both.

“Eat now, write later, you've got all day,” he suggests, and after Fili sighs dramatically and deigns to munch on his toast, Bilbo asks to encourage him after all: “What kind of a soldier is he, then?”

“A really brave one,” Fili explains, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, “but he doesn't want to fight anymore, so he finds a little house and lives there with his family.”

“Sounds like the right thing to do,” Bilbo nods, “you should also make sure he gets enough to eat.”

“He will,” Fili grins, “but then maybe the bad people want him to fight again, and he doesn't want to.”

“Oh my,” Bilbo gasps, putting his spectacles on and opening the newspaper on the table next to him, “what will he do about that?”

“Kill all bad people!” Kili decides, with a lot of determination for a six-year-old, demonstrating with a plethora of noises just how that killing will go, and Bilbo only makes sure he doesn't knock over his mug of tea.

“He could do that,” he offers, “or he could just set up a nice garden and grow tomatoes and decide he's not a soldier anymore.”

“Hmm,” Fili frowns, “but what if the people are still there, and they won't go away until he goes with them to fight?”

“Then maybe...” Bilbo pretends to think very hard, “yes! Then maybe he makes them some nice baked potatoes, which he also grew in his garden, mind you, and they're so delicious that they decide they want to stay too, and no more fighting happens, how about that?”

“No-o!” Kili half wails, half laughs, “that's stupid!”

“Not if the potatoes are really, _really_ delicious,” Bilbo declares, making the boy giggle when he pinches his nose.

“I'll think about it,” Fili says solemnly to that.

 

So yes, all in all it is disturbingly easy to forget that there's a war going on – if one completely ignores the radio, and doesn't receive the occasional mud-smeared letter from across the sea, of course. But it is _supposed to be_ this way, Bilbo thinks, watching the sky, the horizon where London lies, far, far away – the countryside is supposed to stay safe, so that children like Fili and Kili have a place to survive, and grow.

_It is a difficult thing to grasp,_ Colonel Durin writes in the part of his letter that is meant for Bilbo's eyes only, _that miles away from here, people are dying. A sea away from here, back home, people are dying. It is what's supposed to keep us going, or at least that's what they tell me to use as enticement for my troops. I'm not certain it's working._

_At any rate, I am endlessly grateful that the boys don't have to experience any of it – glad that I managed to get them out of London at the last minute. Fortunate that they found you to stay with. In the army, 'family money' is a phrase that breeds some resentment – a lot of the men feel like it's possible to buy your way out of conscripting, often forgetting that they come from all walks of life, carpenters and farmers fighting side by side with businessmen and noblemen._

_The war truly does erase all differences, but I'm sure most of us wish it weren't so._

_Be well, all of you, and don't forget to close the attic window, even in spring, if the boys are to sleep peacefully._

_Sincerely,_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

Bilbo traces the somewhat wrinkled paper – yet again, there are speckles of mud on the edges, as if the esteemed Colonel forgot to wash his hands before writing it, and it is even crumpled gently in that distinctive way that means someone spilled a bit of something by accident.

But it is a kind letter, and longer, too, much longer than what they used to receive when the boys first came here, and Bilbo doesn't quite know if it's true, but he'd like to think that the Colonel finds some momentary comfort in writing those now, and reading the ones he receives.

This particular one is dated almost a month ago, and if there is any indication whatsoever of things progressing overseas, it's this – they waited for this one entirely too long, the boys already beginning to get anxious.

But that, he supposes, is something he's going to have to get used to, and learn to deal with – the war shows no signs whatsoever of stopping any time soon, and even their sleepy corner of the world now knows that it is not to be taken lightly, or expected to be resolved easily. There is talk of rations, however those might affect them, coming from London, and sometimes, it's entirely impossible to tune into the radio broadcast, only to catch them apologizing the next day and naming the new circumstances of whatever horrors happened the night before.

Faced with all that, Bilbo rightly assumes, all one can do is look ahead, bake ahead, and get some fresh air.

 

He distinctly remembers a time – not so very long ago at all, in fact – when he wouldn't leave his house for days on end, perfectly comfortable to sit down in his armchair in front of the fireplace and only do the most necessary chores, blaming his creaking joints and ever-exhausted muscles. But the truth is – and he knows this deep inside, however reluctant he may be at times to admit it – that a certain amount of movement does him good.

Not that he really has any sort of a choice with the boys around. The second the temperatures became the teensiest bit bearable, Fili and Kili in turn became unstoppable, and Bilbo can't but try his absolute best to keep up with them.

Or at least try not to lose sight of them as they run around with his cousin's dog, up and down the hillocks ahead – it feels like every time Bilbo sneezes, they're one more mile farther away from him.

“You have such a melodramatic sneeze.”

Bilbo scowls, rubbing at his nose uselessly with his sleeve.

“I haven't been accused of that before,” he grumbles, and cousin Primula smirks at him. “Maybe it would be less _melodramatic_ had I not forgotten my handkerchief,” Bilbo sees fit to add very sourly, and she sighs, pulling a spare one out of her purse.

“Have we ever really grown past ten?” she accuses the both of them.

“The sad thing is, we have,” Bilbo mutters unhappily into his new-found cotton salvation, “and look at us still.”

“Hmm,” she muses, “at least we haven't lost sight of each other.”

“That's... true, yes... Unlike the boys – where on earth are they?” Bilbo sighs, all but standing on his tiptoes to see over the nearest ridge – the barking of Primula's setter is still loud and clear, though, and when she hails him, Fili and Kili come running and stumbling close behind.

“There you are,” Bilbo inclines his head, “what have you got there... aside from very muddy hands?”

“We picked flowers!” Kili announces proudly, holding up his indeed very muddy handful of... mostly twigs, and some blossoms in between, though a more impressive sight by far is the mud itself that has somehow managed to travel all the way to the boy's cheeks.

“We want to plant them in the garden,” Fili declares, showcasing his much neater bundle of what seems to be mostly daisies and weeds.

“Well, we might have some trouble planting _these_ particular beauties, since you just tore them up all willy-nilly and forgot about the roots... but!” Bilbo quickly changes course when he sees the boys' faces fall, and Primula's warning glare, “we can always press them, I suppose, yes, why not, and they'll stay the same for good, just... flatter. How's that sound?”

“...We can do that?” Fili frowns inquisitively.

“Of course we can,” Bilbo nods, carefully taking Kili's tiny haul away from him before he crushes it completely, “put them in between two sheets of paper, weigh them down with some books... you'll see back home. _After_ you wash your hands. And faces, in some cases.”

Kili giggles as Bilbo brushes his thumb across his dirty cheek, and they seem infinitely pleased with the idea.

“Look at me, professional child wrangler,” Bilbo boasts as Primula and him watch them run off again, and she snorts.

“Please don't call yourself that out loud. One of your lost sheep is coming back already.”

“Yes, Fili?” Bilbo asks, the boy hurrying back like his life depends on it.

“So if the flowers are really flat,” the boy speculates, “can we put them in the letters we send Uncle?”

Somehow, the idea of a seasoned soldier somewhere in the middle of war-torn France opening a letter full of dried daisies spilling into his lap, is hilarious to Bilbo, but for Fili, he only has the kindest smile.

“I don't see why not. Unless your Uncle is allergic like me, then it might be a bit of a problem – I'm joking. Of course we'll send him flowers.”

“Terrific,” Primula snickers as the very satisfied Fili dashes off again, “if he's anything like you, though, those flowers might singlehandedly be responsible for Britain losing the war because one of their soldiers gave away their position by sneezing.”

 

-

 

It seems like one day, they're joking about flower-gathering as they move through the lush green hills towards the Franco-Belgian border, and then a blink of an eye later, it's all up in smoke.

The runner comes literally seconds after the post – the last one they will be receiving in a while – and Thorin remembers clutching a letter from home and exchanging an amused glance with Dwalin at first, because who sends runners anymore when they've got radio?

The French, apparently, when hit with a Blitzkrieg.

From then on, it is a blur of mobilizing, shouting, hurrying, the race to reach their allies in time and assist. Thorin doesn't care for waiting, and neither do his men, and if he had more time, he'd pride himself on how fast the Highlanders are ready to deploy, at the head of the force at all times.

It takes them exactly two days to reach the French, from lush hills down to deep valleys, and they see the lit up sky long, long before they hear the cacophony of it all.

When they do, Thorin doesn't wait for an order to charge in, he can damn well decide that on his own – there is a letter he might never get to open tucked away in his breast pocket, and the French are losing ground, quick.

“How much further to Eben-Emael?” they ask the first somewhat put together unit they come across, and the men squint at them in disbelief – it takes a translator and a couple of confusing minutes to come to the conclusion that the fort which was supposed to be the lynchpin of Belgian defense, had been captured by an airstrike early in the morning two days ago.

“Well fuck,” Dwalin comments, and Thorin and him unanimously elect to ignore the French unit's warnings – the force of the better part of the BEF is amassing behind them, and so Thorin only orders for their driver to carry on, and listens for the whirring of coming planes.

 

In the first week, they lose more squads than Thorin remembers recruiting, and more ground than seems fair – they had started out on the border, but are pushed back steadily, and their only saving grace is having their own forces to fall back on, foxholes they'd built along the way, villages they'd thought they'd never see again, left behind in ruins the second time they set foot there.

And yet, they prevail, pushing back this first force. One day, the Germans cease fire and start retreating, despite being very far away from defeated, and everyone's initial reaction is glee, of course. Protecting France would be a huge victory. Preserving it for the allied forces.

“It's too easy,” Thorin postulates that one evening, mostly having learned to live out of his jeep, on his seventh driver within the span of about a month – nobody ever confirms it, but they're all to young, and they all die the second they're sent ahead into action.

“Yeah, well,” Dwalin grumbles, face caked in mud, his hand always on his rifle, jumpier now that he spends time with their men directly where the fight is, “you and I both know it's just the beginning.”

The next day, the second force of the German army breaches France through the Ardennes way down south, unseen and unexpected, and the real fight finds them at long last.

 

They turn from the offensive into retreat very quickly, and it doesn't take long to realize that they are, for one, to be surrounded soon if they can't push forth. Thorin absolutely refuses to pull further back into the core of the army, where most of the leaders are, staying relatively safe sitting on their pampered asses and trying to predict the outcome – in his eyes, the outcome is very clear, and entirely inevitable. They waited too long, they're going to lose the entirety of France, and it's only a matter of time.

“How are we looking on that turret?!”

“Crossed the river way back this afternoon, sir! They're trying to establish contact, but it's a slim chance!”

Tonight, they are holed up in a church in the middle of yet another abandoned village, and it just so happens that a rather heavily armed German recon squad thought it would be a good vantage point as well. The majority of the Highlanders have crossed the small river behind the village much earlier, and Thorin is now stuck here with only the closest company, because sometimes, scoping out a settlement with the intent of leaving a little something behind for the Germans turns into running into them head on in the first place.

“Send a runner?” Dwalin suggests from across the vast hall, the stone making his voice echo now being torn to shreds by the force of the Germans' firepower, against which they have a bunch of rifles and not enough bullets, and grenades they can count on one hand.

“They're already coming back for us,” Thorin shouts back, “the orders are to stay alive until then!”

The chorus of yessir's is a particularly bitter one, and Thorin can't really fault them.

Another shower of bullets drills uneven holes into the ancient stone behind them, fine dust descending in a hiss, and Thorin can only see about half his men, all of them evaluating – the Germans are testing the waters before wading in, and a waiting game is very risky thing to do when faced with the enemy's superior manpower.

“You and I are going to circle back,” Thorin hisses at the only soldier nearby, and is rewarded with a wicked grin squeezing long dead cigarette butt.

“My sniper rifle's back in my jeep,” one of his most trusted sergeants remarks casually, and Thorin rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I know, Nori. I should hope you damn well remember to do some damage with that,” he points to the man's standard issue weapon, and Nori scoffs, disgusted to even be associated with it, it seems.

“Keep 'em busy, boys!” Thorin declares loudly, and Dwalin's head pops up above the benches far ahead near the entrance, reading Thorin's quick gestures surely, only nodding in agreement and already shouting their men into submission and the beginnings of an offensive, while Thorin and Nori find their way outside through the back of the building.

Two of the Germans seem to have had the exact same idea, and they are dealt with swiftly after all four of them almost run into each other just when Thorin and Nori exit the church, and Thorin might have preferred his first kill of that week to be a bit less hands-on, a bit less jamming his rifle quite literally down someone's throat and pulling the trigger, and he _certainly_ would have preferred the gunshot not echo quite so much, but that's the war for you. Doesn't really give you a choice.

At least their boys are making appropriate noise back in the church now, and Thorin and Nori hurry through the garden, instinctively keeping low. They can see the Germans soon enough, a handful of vehicles taking up the entirety of the square in front of the church, patrols already fanning out to surround the church. Taking them down with about twelve men at their disposal will not be the most difficult thing Thorin has ever had to pull off, but he'd much prefer more grenades, and that turret he'd double-checked just this morning.

“I'm thinking grenade from around that building,” Nori utters, sticking to the wall like glue, “and hopefully Dwalin gets the hint.”

“Did you master those powers of invisibility we talked about overnight, or what?” Thorin grunts, pointing with his head to the three soldiers not engaged in the assault on the church and its surroundings, but rather watching the darkness around, scanning for any sort of movement.

“Eh,” Nori shrugs, “just cover me.”

Killing three men in three seconds isn't very high on Thorin's personal list of favorite ways to spend an evening either, but he does it anyway, as Nori sprints across the alley from the church to the gathering of buildings on the other side – for about the umpteenth time, Thorin makes a mental note to demote the man when situation allows, and then he curses when the surprise attack doesn't go unnoticed, and more uniforms are suddenly headed his general way.

He peels himself off the wall, and ponders diving back into the church for a moment, but then he reconsiders.

“Hope you know what you're bloody doing,” he grunts, half for Nori, half for himself, and sprints around the length of the church to the other side, half expecting a bullet in the back any second.

 

The thing they don't tell you about being in the field, the thing he's seen countless nearly-teenage boys fueled by patriotism realize five minutes in and plead for a chance to turn back, is that it's anything but graceful. Anything but noble, or brave. When it comes down to it, there's people behind every single rifle, men who want to survive, and it's mostly a game of who can pull the trigger faster. Killing will never be glamorous, no matter how many _Down with Nazi scum!_ , posters one may read.

Thorin despises it, but does it with a calm determination, detached, thinking in numbers and strategies the entire time, because that is the only way to do it. He hears Nori whooping and exclaiming in perverse delight among grenades exploding, and hears Dwalin unleashing his entire arsenal of flowery Scottish curses, one for each bullet it seems, each finding their own way of removing themselves from the actual act, and Thorin remembers a scrawny boy on a very rainy night, bruised knuckles and the hilt of the knife too wide and heavy in his hands, and the way it felt absolutely immovable after it struck.

He pulls the trigger mechanically, time after time after time, and instead of the smoke stinging his eyes and the explosions deafening him, he sees the blood pooling like a blooming rose on the chest of the man who had attacked him and his siblings so out of the blue, tastes the bitterness of his innards turning again, his heavy breathing all the same now as it was then, as if he were twelve again and just killed for the first time.

The fight is over sooner than they'd anticipated, the force of their battalion finally remembering to come back for them, and it is merely the fact that he can shout louder than anyone else that prevents his men from slaughter every single German in sight after they surrender – Thorin orders them to be cuffed and captured for interrogation instead, and it is only after the dust settles in the small, now completely demolished square, that he starts paying attention to the stabbing pain in his side.

A bullet grazed his ribs, and he can already predict the annoyance of dealing with the massive bruise that will grow there soon, but for now, he lets the medic approach him, unbuttoning his coat methodically.

“No – wait,” he grunts when they move to take it away from him, and bunches it up in his lap instead, rummaging in its pockets despite the medic asking him to stay still, rolling up his shirt.

He finds the newest envelope, safely tucked away with all the rest, and rips it with shaking, muddy fingers, not entirely sure why it's so important to look at it now, not entirely aware that he's sitting in the middle of a small battlefield, corpses and debris littering it.

“What's the matter with you?” Dwalin grunts, sitting down heavily next to him, “didn't watch your back?”

“Didn't have you there to watch it,” Thorin grumbles absentmindedly in response.

“Well, excuse _me_ , princess – what the hell is that?”

“I think it's daisies,” Thorin mumbles, and together, they stare at the small bundle in his palms, resting like delicate snowflakes in the creases of the folded paper, probably the most surreal thing to be seeing at this time.

“They sent you flowers,” Dwalin states, “what the hell for?”

“I have no idea,” Thorin exhales – his head is spinning, his side throbbing like it's burning, and there's a dead body about three feet away, and a bundle of dried pressed daisies in his hands.

Dwalin stands up and slinks away, giving him some space, and Thorin only realizes why after the wind first picks up, and aside from giving him a bigger scare than any gun ever would when it threatens to blow the dried flowers away, it also cools the sudden streaks on his cheeks.

He folds the letter back up carefully to be read later, and doesn't bother wiping them off – Dwalin was right. This is only the very beginning, after all.

 

-

 

“... _It is impossible to predict at this time. The Allied forces were making their way_ _forward more than successfully, crossing over to Belgium as predicted, when what many are now calling the Blitzkrieg hit them. At 9 o'clock tonight, a tired old man_ _spoke to the nation from_ _number_ _10 Downing Street sat at the big oval table in the Governor's room where so many fateful decisions have been taken during the three years that he has directed the policy of His Majesty's government. Neville Chamberlain announced his resignation. That announcement was entirely impersonal, and many people consider it was the best speech that he has ever made..._ ”

Bilbo takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, the book in his lap forgotten altogether as he listens to the dreary account of the happenings overseas. They're trying to sugarcoat it, as they've been sugarcoating everything up to this point, and he knows he has no sensible reason to disbelieve – shouldn't have one.

But it's been six weeks since the last letter, and he will never forget the chill of going to the post office after the boys begged him to let them write another one, and having it rejected by the clerk.

“There's no way it's reaching London, let alone France,” the woman told him, taking great care to speak quietly after noticing Fili and Kili sitting impatiently nearby, “we're not supposed to accept anything right now. I'm sorry.”

“Could you just... well,” Bilbo gulps the bitterness down to his best ability, leaning forward, “could you please pretend like you're accepting it? For their sake. I'll stop by for it later.”

He'll never forget the sadness in her eyes as she nodded and took it from him, even pretending to stamp it, declaring loudly: “That's that then! On its way to France!” and then adding quietly that she was going to send her eldest with it alongside the newspapers to Bilbo's house.

Turning back around to look and smile at the boys was probably the hardest thing he's ever had to do, but he did it anyway, and he only lets himself think about the implications of it now, after successfully having put them to exactly the sleep that seems to elude _him_ so far. The midnight news are always the worst, always the most honest, when he does manage to tune into it, and really, he doesn't quite know why he does it.

He could close his eyes and live in blissful ignorance, Lord knows it's entirely possible here, virtually in the middle of nowhere. He could easily forget there's a war on, and put on a show for the boys. He could.

He'd have to get the image of a lonely soldier facing off against the world with dried Lancashire daisies tucked into his coat out of his head first.

 

He scoffs at his own foolishness, and makes to get up, when he sees the small figure like a ghost in the hallway, Fili's bare feet and ankles showing under the hem of the pajama trousers that Bilbo suddenly notices are getting a bit too short, his hands gripping the door frame.

“Fili – oh! But you should be asleep!” Bilbo sputters, trying to get up and turn off the radio at the same time, and only really succeeding at angering his hips.

“Is Uncle going to die?” Fili asks in a small voice, watching Bilbo's fumbling with that particular curious detachment only children are capable of.

“Is he going – of course he's not going to die!” Bilbo waves him off, finally managing to turn the switch, the radio shutting off with an indignant crackling hiss.

“But they said everybody's fighting now,” Fili counters, and Bilbo sighs, stepping closer to him and squeezing his shoulder – it's far too late for this, and besides, he doesn't quite enjoy lying to children. They can always see through it, he's come to learn.

“Well, of course everybody's fighting, Fili,” he says gently, “it's a war. But from what I understand, your Uncle is very good at it, very good indeed. Besides, he's a Colonel! That has to count for something, right?”

“What do you mean?” Fili scrunches up his nose.

“Well, he has to have a whole – whole squadron of people willing to help him and protect him! He's not out there alone. He's going to be just fine.”

Fili glares at him, clearly assessing, even more clearly disbelieving, but then his expression changes, as if he's reached some sort of a decision.

“He says it's just managing to stay on your feet longer than your enemy,” he declares, and something deep within Bilbo's heart twists and clenches.

“He says that, does he?”

“He said it to me before he left,” Fili nods firmly, somehow having managed to lift his own spirits.

“W-well then, there you have it,” Bilbo stammers, “I'm sure he'll stay on his feet the longest. Come on now. Back to bed.”

“Can I get hot milk?” Fili asks innocently.

“ _Another one_?” Bilbo exclaims, but good god, that boy can turn on the sad kitten look. Especially when standing barefoot in the dim light of the only lamp in the living room, and looking very tiny and fragile indeed.

“...Fine,” Bilbo concedes, “but it'll be straight back to bed after that. Nobody can really stand on their feet very long without some good sleep, you know.”

-

 

At some point, you start equating sleep with peace, and Thorin doesn't remember when last he experienced either. Hour long kips hugging his rifle and waking up at every odd sound don't really count, and besides, everyone is too on edge to even think about anything more sustained.

The Germans come at them in waves, throwing all their force at them, trying to prevent them from leaving, and Thorin could have been halfway across the sea by now, alongside the rest of high command, but he much prefers to let the rage at their cowardice fuel him right where he stands. He'll be damned if he leaves this godforsaken rock before any of his men. It's bad enough that nobody thought to tell the French that Dynamo was going to be happening in the first place, but the organization of this damn thing has fallen apart like a house of cards.

“The Fusiliers are gone, too,” Dwalin confirms in a moment of relative peace, gunfire only a very distant echo for what is probably bound to be no more than an hour, “command packed their bags first and left the rest to rot.”

“That's half the fucking army down the drain and nobody to hold this place,” Nori describes the obvious, chewing on his cigarette angrily, “wankers.”

They're all just as frustrated, but the truth is, it's supposed to be this way. The evacuation is supposed to happen, and some of them _are_ supposed to fight to the death to allow the rest of them to escape. His people might bitch and moan, but Thorin knows, just as well as all the rest of them, that holding the line will be up to them. To whatever end.

“Alright, boys,” he sighs, “let's get back to it. Nori, I want more people up on those roofs. Bofur, I don't care if you conjure them out of your arse, get some grenades to the front lines. Dwalin, with me.”

 

Dunkirk is a ghost of a town, shells of buildings and piles of debris, nowhere left to hide or run. The jeep Dwalin and him are now driving to the front lines is probably the very last one they have, all the rest left behind in a hurry at various points in their retreat, and they're running out of just about everything else as well, be it food, or bullets, or good old-fashioned hope.

They've been stuck here for weeks now, the evacuation an absolutely disastrous cacophony of _everyone_ wanting to get on the ships, and thus forgetting to stay behind and actually hold off the enemy long enough for that to happen, and even though they are succeeding, more and more troops leaving every day, it's still a bitter victory in the face of a much greater loss.

“You think they're being lauded back home?” Dwalin grunts bitterly, stopping the car in the only spot of cover this stupid flat landscape provides, a small hill overlooking the wrecked city below, and together, they gaze at the ruins and the glimmering sea behind, the rain clouds traveling fast and menacing across the sky.

Thorin almost laughs at the derision with which Dwalin says _lauded,_ and shrugs, rummaging in his coat for his chewing tobacco – or his by association now, the person who lent it to him won't miss it anymore.

“Probably. Churchill is not an idiot, but he needs to sell this bullshit somehow.”

“Just imagine it,” Dwalin leans back in his seat, spreading his hands like he's smoothing out an imaginary sign, “welcome home! Bravest of the brave! Absolutely didn't shit your pants at the first air raid and spent six hours waiting chin deep in the sea for a ship to come! Truly fucking commendable.”

All that Thorin can do is laugh dryly while slapping out the remaining crumbles of the chewing tobacco out of its tin can – he turns it over in his hands for a moment before it occurs to him, and then he takes out the dingy, tattered bundle of letters from his breast pocket and stuffs them in the can. It's the only kind of satisfaction he's bound to feel for a long time, and he clicks the lid close and stuffs it back in his pocket, all the while Dwalin watches him, expression unreadable – or at least unreadable to everyone else but Thorin.

“Go on,” he grumbles, “call me a sentimental idiot.”

“I didn't say anything,” Dwalin defends himself.

“Kili wants to go to school,” Thorin sighs, “can you believe that? It feels like yesterday that he learned to talk.”

“I seem to remember it was the walking that gave him the most trouble.”

“Oh, god, you're right. It's a wonder he never broke his nose. And now he's going to be old enough to go to school. And Fili is just... God, he's so _smart,_ Dwalin. He wants to write a book. And he's really good at Math, you saw what he sent me. I can't believe I'm not going to-”

“Shut up.”

“Well, my _fucking_ apologies for getting a bit-”

“No, I _mean,_ ” Dwalin growls, leaning forth, “shut your bloody mouth and _listen._ ”

It takes him a moment, but the sound is unmistakable once he concentrates on it.

“Shit,” he exhales.

A shout echoes from around the hill, further on where their men are holed up, and it doesn't matter that they can't understand the words, because it's pretty obvious what they're announcing.

_Air raid._

The chopping cackle of engines is unmistakable now, and there is absolutely nowhere to hide down there in the city, and the ships are either coming back right now and getting bombed to oblivion, or way after sundown to discover all the rest of the army they're supposed to evacuate, blasted into smithereens.

“Fuck,” Dwalin sifts through grit teeth, starting the jeep's engine, “fuck me. Fuck this.”

“No,” Thorin says quietly, but sternly nevertheless, and they've been at this too long, Dwalin knows exactly what he means, and gives him the glare to match, _don't be saying what I think you're saying._

“We can't go down there,” Thorin shakes his head, a strange lump of sour apathy in his throat, realizing the truth of the words as he's saying them, “we can't. There's nowhere to hide.”

“Shut the fuck up. We have to warn them.”

“Dwalin,” Thorin sighs, watching him fumble with the ignition, “ _Dwalin._ They already know.”

“Fuck!” Dwalin punches the steering wheel, “god _dammit._ ”

 

It's strangely quiet for a breathless moment in time, Thorin closing his eyes and inhaling, noticing perhaps for the very first time how fresh the air is up here, away from the smoke and rot, and then the planes come roaring overhead, a high-pitched scream, and his body reacts on his own, Dwalin and him are out of the jeep and down the ridge by the road in a matter of seconds, and he could swear the first explosion makes the ground shudder a little bit.

Dwalin is yelling something incomprehensible and furious at the sky, and Thorin's heart skips a beat every time a new hole is torn into the shore, and then a sudden urge overcomes him, _look at the sea one last time. Look at the horizon, and dream of England._

A brief silence follows, and they crawl out of the ditch they're in just enough to see the pillars of smoke and the glow of the fires, and the planes like nimble crows making a u-turn above the sea, their work not quite finished yet, and it takes Thorin and Dwalin far too long to realize where exactly the line of fire is.

There should be no more bombs, _there shouldn't be anymore goddamn bombs,_ and yet the explosion literally bites out a chunk from the hill they're on, and just like the entire rest of Dunkirk, it is leveled. Thorin is catapulted off the ground, seconds after taking off in a run Dwalin and him had wordlessly agreed on, and unfortunately, the landing doesn't knock him out cold.

The jeep exploding literally inches away from him does, though.

 

The rest is a blur. He opens his eyes what might be seconds or hours later, and his entire body is on fire, probably not literally, but damn close, and he's being dragged somewhere, his own groans of pain hoarse to his ears – someone is forcing him to walk even though his legs aren't really responding, and he might as well be in hell. All that he can see is an orange glow, all that he can smell is smoke, and the heat is unbearable.

“We're getting out of here,” someone – Dwalin, he decides, for his own peace of mind – is telling him.

“We can't,” Thorin wants to protest, “we can't leave them.”

_Can't leave them._

_Can't leave them._

He doesn't know how many times he repeats that, doesn't even know how much time passes, how much blood leaks out of his body and into French soil. Doesn't know anything at all.

But the next time he opens his eyes and is somewhat capable of registering his surroundings, he thinks he sees stars on the sky above him, which either means night, or death just around the corner.

“We're going home,” he recognizes Dwalin's voice, “we're going back.”

_Ships?_

“Yeah, we made it onto a damn ship, would you believe that.”

The past year is condensed in Thorin's mind, into one painful, dreary, bloodied smear, it's like he's watching it in retrospect, and there's something he should be remembering, but can't.

“You're fine, you're fine, it's there.”

Only then does he realize he's been trying to fumble for something all this time, but it's difficult, since he can't feel an inch of his body. Dwalin's hand covers his own and moves it gently, and he recognizes the odd shapes of something firm on his chest, and it comes flooding back. Mismatched letters in crayon, drawings of houses, dried flowers spilling out of carefully stapled envelopes...

“Home,” he croaks, lungs rattling, heart somehow still beating despite everything, and the last thing he sees before unconsciousness swallows him again, is the image of his boys, laughing, waving at him, beckoning him to come to them, unattainable and yet within reach...

Unbeknownst to him, the ship that carries him and Dwalin and a dozen others across the sea, is among the very last ones to make that trip, and as it turns out, they all were right – back on the continent, Hitler has seized his biggest prize yet, France crumbling at last, and it is, still, only just the beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay oh god I think I literally sweated blood when writing this. I am so sorry it took so long, but I hit a proper big writer's block the likes of which I haven't experienced in a while, and it really hindered me. Consequently, I just wasn't able to respond to all the lovely comments on the last chapter, but rest assured I read them all, and they very definitely kept me going. I AM super glad I finally managed to squeeze this monster out, and it puts a nice bow on what I like to call Act 1 of this fic. Onward to the rest!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After the very obvious failure to protect France, the British Expeditionary Force is decimated – lives lost, vital equipment left behind along with morale. The focus is shifted to protecting their own country, from within. Volunteers join the Home Guard all over, anti tank and anti air raid defenses built, compared to the previous leniency, at the speed of light._  
>  A soldier wakes up at a local hospital to discover his army disillusioned and disorganized, and a man and two boys on the other side of the country spend their time pressing flowers, a seemingly silly, insignificant thing to do amid a raging war that is very, very far from over...

His brother's death smelled of blood, and herbal tea, and decay. He remembers entering that room that one fateful morning, and just _knowing,_ even though the air in there hadn't changed in weeks, no matter how often they opened the windows, no matter how many flowers his sister had put on the night stand, a glass jar serving as a makeshift vase.

It came quick and unexpected and relentless, Frerin's illness, stealing the spark from his eyes and the air from his lungs and the meat off his bones, shrinking him from a tall, healthy boy at the precipice of adulthood, to a husk, a shell of his former self, within a matter of weeks.

They sat with him, and laughed and ate with him, even though it became obvious at some point that they were going to lose him eventually, and Thorin remembers sitting at the edge of his bed as Dis read to them both, and feeling guilty for hating the pungent smell of sickness surrounding them, not particularly heavy but pervasive, like a constant reminder that some wars, you can't win no matter how much fight you have in you.

That's why, for a blind moment right after he wakes up, he's certain he's either dead or delirious, because the smell is the same, everywhere around him. The white remains the same when he opens his eyes as well, and he could almost convince himself that he'll just stand up from Frerin's bed and go stand by the window, and see the leaves of the ancient linden tree in their garden fluttering in a fresh afternoon breeze, one or two descending every now and then and landing on the ever-changing surface of the brook right below, the water carrying them swiftly away and out onto the surrounding fields.

But it doesn't take him very long at all to realize that he's anywhere but home – probably very far from it, in fact. There's a dull ache in his stomach chaining him to the bed he's lying on, and his eyes blur with tears of pain when he attempts to move, his leg probably trying to split apart. As a result, it takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings, but once he makes sense of the tall arched windows, and the rows of beds both to his left and right, it becomes obvious where he is.

The best course of action right now is probably to just stay still, judging from how many bandages he can see just on his arms alone. Fortunately a nurse appears soon enough, noticing him and hurrying over, checking him over and asking him questions, even though he'd like to be the one doing that.

"Lieutenant Colonel Thorin Durin, 152nd Battalion, Seaforth Highlanders," he dutifully recites his credentials, "where am I?"

"Royal Victoria Hospital, sir, in Folkestone."

"Am I alone? From..." his temples are throbbing, and his throat feels like sandpaper, and he remembers the explosions far too vividly, "Dunkirk, I mean. My entire squad..."

"I don't know about your squad," she smiles apologetically, "but there were others with you on the transport. Anyone in particular you'd like me to ask for?"

He recites the names of his closest, and she nods dutifully, rummaging in the crooked metal night stand next to his bed.

"I'll see what I can do. Here are your personal possessions. The ones they found on you, anyway."

His dog tags slither into his palm, much more beaten and battered than he remembers them. The notebook he'd carry in his breast pocket is almost unrecognizable, the mud and, apparently, blood, getting everywhere, and he sets that aside to salvage later. What he's most interested in is the tin can, miraculously left almost untouched, miraculously still _there,_ somehow. Prying it open is a bit difficult, as the weak metal is bent out of shape in several places, but he succeeds eventually.

This time, the tears in his eyes aren't of pain, though the strain is nearly the same, if not greater – the letters are all there, pressed and folded away, a little bit ruined by... something leaking inside, probably seawater, and dried flowers spill into his lap like butterflies, perfectly unscathed it would seem.

"I'm going to go get you a glass of water, and a doctor to check you over," the nurse informs him kindly, "is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

He wipes at his eyes hastily, and squares his shoulders as much as he is capable of in his miserable state.

"I need a pen and paper."

 

-

 

It is mostly unclear, what _really_ happened on the other side of the channel, but one thing is certain – evacuated soldiers have been pouring back home for days, weeks now, and there's a lot of chaos in it, and very little mention of names, ranks, _anything_ to identify people in particular.

Nevertheless, Bilbo tries, because he can't very well remain idle – not while Fili took about a day to figure out what's going on, and hasn't stopped asking him where Uncle Thorin might be since. It doesn't take long to realize how futile his attempts are, though, because what can he _really_ do? From here, in the middle of nowhere? Send a couple of letters? How incredibly resourceful.

It's been over two months without a letter from the other side, and he feels like his connection with the boys, whatever it has amounted to, is thinning out. Slowly but surely. Oh, they are still a handful, still loud and cheerful and _unbearable_ at times, but they will never truly stop worrying, stop asking questions, until they know their Uncle is safe. And really, one has to wonder, what if he isn't? What if he isn't, and Bilbo is about to face the most difficult thing one can say to a child, without ever having signed up for doing that in the first place?

He's so wrapped up in trying to come up with what to say, in fussing over the tiniest details, in listening to the radio and trying to figure out where one would even start looking for a man one barely knows, that he doesn't even realize he's closer than he might think. The Colonel, that is.

He is in the midst of trying to convince Kili to get changed from his utterly muddy trousers into a dry pair, when they hear Fili's call from the garden where Bilbo has let him play, _the postman is here!_ , and before he can so much as catch his breath, Kili slithers out from behind the table and out of Bilbo's reach both, and speeds out of the house, giggling as Bilbo scolds him, only half-hearted, but no less frustrated.

“Let the poor man do his job on his own!” he calls after both boys, picking up his cane with a sigh and slinking out after them only highly reluctantly – it would seem that his mood suffers alongside the boys', a phenomenon he isn't too thrilled about.

The sun warms him with an almost offensive vigor, seeping into his bones, and for a second he merely stands there at the doorstep, eyes readjusting from inside to outside, a tad overwhelmed, which is probably why it takes him a second to realize that the boys' shrieks have a different tinge to them today.

“Bilbo!” Fili shouts, dashing back up the hill from the gate, waving an envelope in his hand, Kili stumbling behind him, “it's a letter!”

Bilbo doesn't have the heart to tell him that yes, a letter could come from anyone – but the truth is, he feels a momentary flutter of some forgotten excitement, a bit of hope.

“Alright, alright, let me see that, then,” he grumbles, attempting to pry the envelope from Fili's flapping hands, and then, when he succeeds at last and turns it over to look at the address, written in a now familiar script: “Oh, my.”

“Is it Uncle?” Fili demands, Kili echoing.

“Let me see, let me see,” Bilbo fumbles to open the thing, fingers suddenly clumsy, “let's see here... _Dear Fili, Kili, and Master Baggins..._ It's him.”

“It's Uncle!” Fili exclaims, and Kili mirrors his brother, squeaking in delight, jumping around like the little showman he is.

“What does it say, what does it say?”

“Yes, yes, alright, let me catch my breath, I don't even have my glasses,” Bilbo sighs, “let's see here...”

“Come _on_ , Bilbo!” Fili's impatience is almost comical, and Bilbo laughs, ruffling his hair, which makes him even more aggravated. “I'm just going to read it myself!”

“No, no, that's alright, I can manage,” Bilbo grins, “hush, and listen. _Dear Fili, Kili, and Master Baggins..._ ”

 

_I am alright and in good enough health, though I can scarcely believe it myself. Apologies for leaving you all in the dark for such a long time, but the last months before Dunkirk were very difficult for us all. I find myself bedridden at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Folkestone, but they tell me I should be fine soon. Just as well, there is still work left to do._

_Boys, I hope you are well. It has been a very long time since I last heard from you, and I look forward to learning all about your progress at school and otherwise. I'm sure I will barely recognize you, you must have grown up so much in my absence. Be good to Mr Baggins, and write back soon, I long to hear about how you've been. Lying in bed all day provides little excitement, and you can imagine I have a lot of free time on my hands, much more than I'm used to._

_I would like for you to come visit me, but please bear in mind that traveling to this side of the country can be dangerous, and it is also quite a lengthy trip. I will be content in knowing that you are safe in the countryside with Mr Bilbo._

_You should be able to write me back to the hospital's address, as I will be staying here for at least two or three weeks, before my relocation is decided. I will inform you of any news on that front. I look forward to hearing from you,_

_With love_

 

_Uncle Thorin_

 

The boys are absolutely beside themselves, Fili snatching the letter from Bilbo to re-read it himself, both babbling about packing their bags immediately and going to visit him, and Bilbo leaves them to it, let them dash across the garden and back inside the house, while he still clutches onto the _other part_ of that letter, meant for his eyes only. Somehow, he senses that that overly cheerful attitude must have been difficult to keep going for the boys' sake, and the Colonel's words to him, always more frank, always sharper because he knows Bilbo alone can withstand it, confirm his suspicions.

 

_Dear Mr Baggins,_

 

_it feels like decades since I've seen the faces of my nephews. It feels like decades since I've had proper sleep, and didn't have to worry about bullets flying overhead, but that is another matter entirely. They offer regular meals, and plenty of paper to write on here, and I know I should be grateful, relieved even, but the war is far from won, I'm afraid, and I cannot stay idle for long._

_I would love to see the boys again, but like I said, it is entirely too dangerous to travel right now, so I would advise and ask you all to stay put, if Fili and Kili can contend with conversing through letters alone._

_Aside from that, I don't think I want them to see me in my current condition – my wounds aren't anything that won't heal with time and patience, but I still think all of it, the death and decay surrounding me, might be too much of a burden on them._

_I cannot say where this war will progress, but already I am rejoining the effort, even if it is merely through correspondence right now. Not many of my comrades survived Dunkirk, and the rage against Germany among those who did is tangible. We must fight to recover from this blow, fortify our position at home, and gain a firmer foothold, if we are to vanquish this particular evil._

_It is a gargantuan task, but it is one that I must partake in, no matter the cost._

_It might be a while yet before we meet and I get to shake your hand and thank you for all that you have been doing for my nephews, but until that day comes, know this – I am already eternally grateful, and wherever this war takes me, I do hope that it will allow for our correspondence to continue. I find it most uplifting._

_Sincerely yours_

 

_Thorin Durin_

 

 _P.S.: Lancashire daisies appear to be a particularly resilient strain, as they have survived Dunkirk,_ and _the gruesome way home. I carry them with me in an old tin can someone gave me, and I find the sight of them oddly comforting. Thank you._

 

The sun is suddenly a tad overwhelming, and Bilbo shields his pricking eyes against it. The Colonel's words break his heart, and despite everything he knows to be sensible at the moment, he wishes more than anything to be able to leave, pack up the boys and travel to Kent, to see him, to make sure that he really is... _real._ Because surely, developing an attachment to someone one only knows through letters cannot be healthy, or convenient for that matter.

The boys wail and they complain, even get all the way from annoyed to despondent, when Bilbo explains to them all the reasons they cannot, in fact, just pack up and travel south to visit their Uncle, but eventually, he manages to distract them with announcing that said Uncle is now in need of a very long letter detailing every single development in their life here in the past months – Fili accepts that duty solemnly, sitting down and writing and writing, arguing with Kili to exhaustion over every turn of phrase, a moment Bilbo truly wishes he were able to photograph and send alongside the letter.

For his part, he checks the stack of books on the windowsill, carefully opening the one on the very bottom, sheets of paper in between its pages shielding the now perfectly pressed flowers – primroses this time, and apple blossoms from the only tree left over from what used to be his father's orchard on the hillock above his home, and bindweed Fili and Kili found by the side of the road the other day...

“That one, that one!” Fili chooses it firmly, while Kili has a more magnanimous view of the situation: “All of them!”

“We can't very well send _all of them,_ ” Bilbo chuckles, “if anything, we need to pick more, to last us.”

“Do you think the war will take much longer?” Fili asks him intently, the almost translucent pressed flower like a butterfly wing forgotten in his palm.

Bilbo gulps.

“I'm sure it won't. But it never hurts to be prepared, yes?”

Fortunately, the boys seem to be satisfied with that response, and Bilbo watches them carefully pack the letter with some measure of relief. Watching his mouth – might be a good thing to master sometime soon.

 

-

 

“Shut up, I'm telling you, I'm here on official orders! I swear to God, if you don't let me in-”

Thorin wakes up to a ruckus outside his room, making the other patients' heads turn as well, and the young nurse bringing him his lunch looks appropriately spooked. Thorin smiles.

“Could you please run out there and tell them that the shouting man may come in? I'm affiliated with him,” he asks the girl, who stares silently for a moment, eyes darting from Thorin to the door, back to Thorin, before nodding and dashing out, and after some more subdued chatter, Dwalin comes strolling into the ward, followed by a very displeased doctor and the head nurse, and it takes some convincing, and Thorin pulling rank, for them to leave them alone.

“I was wondering if you'd ever come check up on me,” Thorin crosses his arms, sitting up in his bed, albeit with some hardship.

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Dwalin harrumphs, “you're lucky I survived at all, dragging your sorry arse out of there.”

Thorin guffaws, causing his bruised ribs to act up, and Dwalin shakes his head in disapproval as he watches him wince.

“Such a baby. Come on, let's get you a pair of crutches, we need to talk _in private,_ ” he says firmly, shooting a nasty look to the poor old man in the bed across from Thorin's, who pouts and abruptly stops eavesdropping.

“I'm not exactly allowed to-”

“Oh, you're not _allowed?_ ” Dwalin all but throws his hands up in the air, “well excuse me, I came to pick up my Colonel, not a damsel in distress!”

“Alright, alright, that's enough,” Thorin grumbles, but he can't hide the smile, even though getting out of bed _is_ a bit troublesome, after spending so much time just lying down in it – fortunately the glee and relief at seeing Dwalin relatively unscathed is a much more convincing driving force than all his sore spots, and he is soon hobbling out of the building and into some much needed fresh air, Dwalin not helping him one bit but still staying close enough were that ever needed.

“Your correspondence is a mess,” he announces with the disgust of a man who much prefers to deal with things head on, rather than through letters, as they find a bench in the garden surrounding the hospital, far away from prying ears and eyes. “I've had enough trouble as it is to convince HQ that you _are_ in fact still alive and very much prepared to rejoin the effort. Most of them deemed it unnecessary to contact you, and those who didn't, couldn't really spare the time to come visit, you see, so they each wrote a heap of letters instead. Here.”

He dumps an entire folder full of envelopes in Thorin's hands, and just sits and waits – Thorin sorts through them idly, unsure of what he's looking for... Except that he knows exactly what he wants to find, and he can't exactly hide his glee when he finds it, forgetting all the other letters as he holds the comparably thicker envelope in his hands. But then he catches Dwalin's gaze, and sets it aside to read later, in private, instead forcing himself to focus his attention on the rest.

“Fortifying our position at home,” he frowns after giving a couple of the letters a quick look-over, “a nice term for being incapable of offense.”

“Right? We should probably head to London as soon as we're able. Some people could use a good _strong_ reminder of what we're fighting for, and that we're actually _supposed to be fighting_ for it.”

Thorin smirks at his friend's fiery determination, even now – as for himself, he is of course fully prepared to rejoin the effort, it's just...

It's just the idea of his nephews, falling asleep in some tiny, cozy house up north, surrounded by untouched greenery and peaceful silence – and wanting to protect that.

“Written to the boys yet?”

Reading his mind, yet again.

Thorin hums his affirmation, and Dwalin seems to relax, lounging a bit more comfortably next to him.

“Good. Let me add something to the next one you write?”

“Of course,” Thorin smiles.

Somewhere in the tall oaks in the gardens, birds start squabbling over a meal, perhaps, their chirping filling the serene silence – both men flinch instinctively, used to much louder sounds, spelling something much more ominous, but they settle down quickly, and never utter a word about it.

“Go on, then,” Dwalin motions to the last envelope left untouched, “you don't have to wait for me to leave to read it.”

Thorin glares at him, but when his right hand man holds his own, he sighs, and relents, opening the envelope almost too cautiously.

The flowers are secured in between two sheets of fine paper, cut down to size, this time, so that they don't come spilling out like the last time, but he still handles them with utmost care, almost translucent thin blooms, like someone had sketched them on paper and then somehow extracted them to rest in Thorin's palms.

“What are they?”

“Do I look like a flower expert to you?” Thorin chuckles, and then, when his breath alone threatens to blow them away, “damn, I left the tin can by my bed. ….What?”

Dwalin is looking at him funny, but just shakes his head when confronted, and motions to the letter.

“Come on, then. Read out loud.”

 

_Oakenclough, 28 August 1940_

 

_Dear Uncle,_

 

_you're okay! Why can't we come see you? Bilbo says it's dangerous and that you will probably be going somewhere else before this letter gets to you, but we really want to go see you. Make the war end soon so we can go back to the big house together. Maybe Bilbo can come too. He cooks good._

_He says to write about us – Kili will go to school after the summer! We promised. And he's learning to read now. Bilbo gave us our own little place in the garden to ~~make things grow~~ plant things. He taught us how to press flowers, too, so we can send them to you. And we put the others in a book with their names and everything._

_Come back soon! Bilbo always makes too many pancakes for breakfast on Sundays and then complains because there's too few of us to eat them all._

_Bye bye!_

 

 _Fili & _(the ampersand rewritten at least six times until it's somewhat right) _KIIIIILI_

 

Dwalin laughs, and snatches the letter from his hand, and Thorin hardly complains, because it just means he doesn't ask about the second part of it – _that,_ Thorin saves for later, when he's back in his bed, everybody else, especially nosy old Mister Thompson across the aisle, fast asleep, the only light provided by the battered oil lamp by his bed.

He unfolds it quietly, after having put the contents of it – bindweed, apparently – safely into the tin can with the rest, and a strange calm overcomes him at the sight of lines after lines of Bilbo's erratic, but still neat, cursive.

 

_Dear Colonel,_

 

_I understand that this war is supposed to sap us of all hope, extinguish every ember left steaming, but somehow, perhaps boisterously, I feel like it is the exact opposite. Guilt is my constant companion these days, sometimes silent, other times nagging and loud, whenever I think of you all fighting, actually fighting, on the front, and getting injured, and bleeding for our country, while I sit comfortably in my armchair, my biggest worry as of right now making sure that the pie doesn't burn in the oven._

_And yet, as summer slowly turns into autumn, even though no one can predict where this will take us, I find myself hopeful. Isn't it laughable, faced with all of this? Or perhaps it is the exact kind of rebellion I might enjoy, because it's the only one I can afford. Hoping._

_I do not know if any of this will make any sense to you – indeed I suspect you have much more pressing matters to attend to than a man's rambling letters. The boys are fine, which I think will be much more to your liking – healthy, and thriving, and trying to convince me every hour of every day to just pack up and leave to see you._

_It's strange, knowing that you are now in the same country, and yet unreachable – I think it frustrates them the most, though they cannot name it. I'm doing my very best to distract them. Please do share with us the means of reaching you, wherever you go, they do so enjoy your letters, and I hope with all my power that your circumstances allow you to write to us more or less regularly. I, too, have come to enjoy our correspondence a great deal._

_That ink stain right next to this line is from when I let my pen hover over the paper for too long, trying to think of what to write next – there seems to be so much to talk about, and so few opportunities to do it. I mean, with people around here. All you get to hear about is the threat of rations, and the threat of planes overhead, and the discourse over the Home Guard, should we join, should we not join, 'maybe I can remake my pitchfork into a real weapon Ma', and perhaps it is selfish of me to want to have a regular conversation every once in a while, but I do think it's only normal to want to take our minds off the adversities we face._

_But anyhow, I really_ have _rambled for far too long at this point, and taken up too much paper, and, no doubt, your time, when this letter does finally reach you. The boys are no doubt going to ask me why on earth the envelope is so thick._

_I leave you with my sincerest regards – get better soon, and do keep us informed._

_Yours_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

_P.S.: It's bindweed this time, Kili found it by the side of the road, and if my mother's old herbary is correct, it's supposed to stand for 'uncertainty'. I just think it looks exceptionally pretty when pressed, so you make of it what you will._

 

All in all, even though his ribs hurt something fierce doing so, Thorin doesn't think he's laughed this much since before the beginning of the war. Among the pile of the official envelopes he's promised himself he'd start dealing with _tomorrow,_ he finds a clean sheet of paper, and even though his body begs him to just switch off the damn lamp and go to sleep, he writes, and writes, and feels his mood improving just a bit.

 

-

 

“Bilbo, Bilbo, I just joined the Home Guard!”

“Excuse me, you did _what now?_ ” Bilbo barely has the time to clamber to his feet from the armchair he was comfortably dozing in up until now, before Fili and Kili come speeding into the living room, remembering to set down their school bags nicely, but all in all apparently too excited to stop and catch their breath.

“Timmy Bellybur's dad joined over the summer, and so did Fatty Bolger's older brother, and Timmy said that we could make a Home Guard of our own, and we could build forts around the forest, and Bert's dad is a blacksmith and Bert says he might talk him into making actual swords for us!”

“And Fatty has a gun!” Kili chimes in, and when Bilbo looks appropriately terrified, Fili waves his hand dismissively.

“No, no, his brother has an old gun that he said he'd lend him if the Home Guard came up with better weapons, but it's just for shooting grouses, so it can't do any real damage, Fatty says.”

“Well then,” Bilbo sighs, “how terribly exciting.”

“I wanna fight in the war like Uncle!” Fili proclaims, to Kili's enthusiastic agreement, and Bilbo's heart sinks, but he'd be damned before he let that show.

“Well, I'm sure he'd be immensely proud of you,” he smiles, “why don't you write him all about it in your next letter. But for now, it's time to tackle that homework before it's time to go.”

“Is Fatty going to be there too?”

“I believe that _Fredegar_ ,” Bilbo, who spent his childhood weathering a lot of different no doubt well meant nicknames that had to do with his tiny round posture, takes special care to remind the boys of the importance of using anything but _that_ , “and his parents are coming, yes. Now go on, wash your hands, there's pie on the table in the kitchen, and homework right after.”

 

The palpable tension has finally reached Oakenclough – at first, no one really took the notices about the formation of the Local Defense Volunteers, or the Home Guard, very seriously. Oakenclough has always lived a bit behind the times, compared to the rest of the country, and its residents couldn't be happier about it, but when all you hear in the radio day and night is a call to take up arms and defend your King and country, even some of the most peaceful farmers out there will eventually start getting ideas, and most of those ideas will probably involve, yes, realizing that their pitchforks can be used for something else than moving hay around the attic.

It has heart, but it's disorganized to say the least, because very few of the fancy inventions, starting with uniforms and _actual_ weapons, and ending with someone who has even the faintest idea how to organize people into a body capable of defending anything more than their barn, have actually reached Oakenclough, or Lancashire and the rest of the north in general. Oh, it's different in the cities no doubt, but around here, the idea of an organized force is a bit laughable to say the least.

But by god, that won't stop people from really going off about it.

“Look, the way I see it, it should be everyone's goddamn _duty_ to stand up and fight,” proclaims Odo Bolger, Fatty's – _Fred's_ no less enthusiastic father, “I wrote to London headquarters last week, I did, because folks down there have some really good ideas about all this. Build an anti tank walk up north, I wrote to them. Send the brunt of those filthy Nazis up here, we'll show them how it's done.”

“Dear Lord,” Bilbo peeps while Odo is backed up by cheers of those of a similar mindset, and Cousin Primula sniggers, quietly so that no one can accuse them of a lack of patriotism, or something – it's very likely to happen in current company.

“Say, Odo,” pipes up Drogo, Primula's husband, currently sharing hers and Bilbo's amused smirk “wouldn't it be much easier to just build that anti tank defense line where they're building it right now, so that the Nazis never get here at all in the first place?”

Odo Bolger is a man of an impressive stature, but decidedly less impressive mental fortifications, and his brow furrows under the strain of intense thinking as he glares at Drogo, before finally reaching _some sort_ of a conclusion and exclaiming: “Pah! That's what they _want you_ to think! What if the Nazis come from the north _down,_ what then?”

It is a true testament to Cousin Lobelia's aptitude for setting up social gatherings, that the large room is divided almost evenly among stunned silence, and tentative hums of approval for a couple of seconds.

“Say Bilbo,” Primula speaks up, clutching her husband's hand appreciatively, both of them trying not to laugh, “you have firsthand information from an actual officer of the army – what _is_ the likelihood of the Nazis attacking from the north? A most cunning plan, don't you think, since they'd be coming from the east?”

Bilbo chokes on his tea a little bit, but sets it down as seriously as possible, withstanding the glare of Lobelia, and half the room backing her, with grace. _This_ is fun. _This_ he can enjoy.

“Well, I don't know about that, I'm not privy to much military strategy, see,” he declares completely deadpan, “I'm going to have to ask the Lieutenant Colonel in our next letter to him. Perhaps he'll be willing to share.”

That meets with quiet laughter from the people Bilbo _really_ appreciates, and the company returns to conversing among themselves, Bilbo, Primula and Drogo having a good snigger about it all.

“Honestly though,” Prim asks gently, “how are the news from the front?”

The cheerful screeching of the children playing out on the veranda and in Lobelia's garden (she gave up yelling at them not to trample her hydrangeas after some time) carries inside the house, and Bilbo can't help but try and see, and smile. Primula is looking at him a bit different when he turns back to pay attention to her.

“The news from...? Oh. Oh, it's... well, good, I suppose? You know what they say, the war is far from over. Thorin – the Colonel writes about rejoining the effort, but where, I don't know.”

“Yes, but is it true what they say about the German invasion?” Drogo leans in, “I'm not saying transform the entire country into a war zone, but is there anything we need to be prepared for?”

“I'm quite certain _anything and everything_ would be the answer to that, isn't that right, Bilbo?” Primula points out.

Bilbo looks at them both, so young, so... what's the word? Not idealistic, but perhaps enthusiastically hopeful. They met back in London during their studies, and Bilbo never understood how they've both seemed so content coming back here, what with Primula's big ideas for transforming country education one tiny village classroom at a time, and Drogo's endless hunt for writing inspiration... They are perhaps his favorite people here to spend time with, closest to his mindset, and yet every so often, he finds himself not understanding them. Or perhaps seeing in them something he himself has forgone a long time ago.

“I wouldn't know,” he smiles a bit bitterly, “I was being honest when I said we don't quite discuss military strategy.”

“What _do_ you discuss, then?” Primula smirks, and surely, the heat suddenly rising in his cheeks can be attributed to the three tiny, but decisively empty, brandy glasses on the serving table next to him.

“You know,” he shrugs, “how the boys are progressing, usually. Comparing his shortcomings with mine, that's always a fun exercise.”

“Burnt pies versus burnt down cities?” Drogo supplies loftily, and Primula punches him in the arm, but Bilbo laughs.

“Have you been reading my correspondence behind my back? Do _not_ write a book about _that._ ”

“Oh come on, it would make for a lovely story,” Drogo smirks, and yet again, Bilbo finds himself thinking of him and the boys right now, sitting warmly and eating plenty, the war nothing but a distant reminder, a topic to cut up Lobelia's trademark butter chicken over, while the Colonel is probably off commanding troops somewhere, his injuries barely healed, and the actual grim reality of the war spreading out before him.

“Yes,” Bilbo sighs, “I'm sure it would.”

"Hold on, quiet, everybody!" that's Lobelia's husband's authoritative voice echoing over the general chatter, and Bilbo perks up to see, alongside everyone else, as Otho turns the volume knob on the radio on the far side of the room as far right as it will go, the somewhat distorted broadcast suddenly the only sound in the vast dining hall.

  


_"...an estimate of hundreds of dead. The Luftwaffe arrived late last night, and dropped over a dozen confirmed bombs on the city. This is, uh, only a very rough estimate right now, the attack was so unprecedented that London is only just beginning to shake it off, and in some ways, it never will.This is the most vile form of warfare, and we're told our brave boys from the RAF are already preparing to retaliate tonight. We will inform you of any developments, but please, folks, stay safe, and stay inside, and if you hear that siren, don't hesitate to hide. Lend a helping hand to those without a bunker in their homes. They want to destroy our spirit, but if we work together, there is nothing that we can't-"_

  


Somebody, Bilbo can't see who, switches off the radio then, and a good thing too, since his stomach has started turning a bit too much. Even the reporter had sounded utterly shocked, and Bilbo can see that shock now, mirrored in the faces of everyone around him.

"London," Primula exhales, as the company erupts in varying degrees of horrified chatter again.

"The first of many, probably," Drogo speculates darkly, squeezing her arm, "it's a good thing they started building those bunkers when they did."

 

And it really is only the very beginning. In the next week or so, five more attacks happen, London first, Liverpool following shortly after, and it becomes almost impossible, listening to the news without the boys present – they figure out something is going on, of course they do, because Bilbo isn't all that good at hiding his worry, not good at all.

And still no letter...

Everybody assures them that the north has nothing to worry about, not really, they're too far away for Hitler to really bother, but still, _stay indoors as much as you can for your own safety, switch off as many lights as you can afford after nightfall..._ _Scaremongering_ only really happens because certain people seem to find actual physical joy in it, in paranoia and misinformation, people like Odo Bolger, who see it fit to declare that every man should pick up a gun and go march on London to help with... getting blasted to bits probably...

When the letter finally does arrive, it's severely delayed, and stamped with a big red 'CONFIDENTIAL' stamp twice, the reason for which only ever transpires in its contents.

 

_Dear Fili, Kili and Master Baggins,_

 

_thank you for your letter, it's worked miracles on improving my mood. I am finally well enough to leave this hospital behind, and rejoin the effort like I've been planning. I am feeling much better now, though they think a certain limp might stay with me for a while. But no bother, I'll be reuniting with my superiors and what's left of my_ _battalion_ _in London very soon. Please don't be alarmed by the packaging of this particular response, as I had to pull quite a number of strings to even be able to send it – apparently the post offices across the country are straining. But reaching me should be fairly simple: (...)_

_I am pleased to hear that you are both enjoying school..._

 

Bilbo lets Fili read the rest out loud, only half listening. _London._ And the letter is dated well before the reports of the first air strike.

Unreasonably anxious, Bilbo saves the second part of it for after the boys' bedtime, and reads it hiding in his bed, the window open only at a crack, letting in the quiet sounds of the first autumn drizzle, and fortunately nothing more, nothing louder, nothing _dangerous._

They don't even _have_ sirens in Oakenclough, old Mr Bellybur would probably have to get up in the middle of the night and limp his way to his station on the top floor of the town hall to announce an air strike on the old loud-speaker...

 

_Dear Master Baggins,_

 

 _Folkestone_ _is a gray, cold and miserable place, even at the peak of summer. I can't wait to be rid of this bed, and these bandages and crutches, and travel to London. It is clear that the fight is far from over, but the leniency which we handled the beginning of this war with, must be eradicated. We've waited enough for Hitler to explain himself, to retreat, to show any sign of treating this as anything else than a mindless massacre, and since he's never done so, I'd like to think we are now free to retaliate in kind._

_How are things in Oakenclough? I find that reading about a life so detached from the immediate horrors of all this, brings some peace, puts my mind at rest. Reminds me that yes, there are things to fight for._

_I've heard plenty about the establishing of the Home Guard – it is a noble purpose, though I can imagine many people misinterpreting it as the chance to pick up whatever has the sharpest edge in their household and go to war with an enemy that is nowhere near. Our utmost hope is that folk further away, up north and everywhere the fight hasn't reached yet, stay precisely that – at peace – and I think we should strive for that, most of all. If you ever see anyone needlessly picking up a pitchfork, I implore you to sit them down and give them a good talking to, with the blessing of the Army, if you happen to need to pull rank._

_Which is incidentally what I'm going to have to start doing much more from now on, if I want our correspondence to continue unhindered – please do not feel discouraged by that in the least, though._

_Your rambling is very dear to me._

_Faithfully yours_

 

_Thorin Durin_

 

_Bilbo's fingertips stop over the very last sentence, tracing it back and forth several times as if that will help him commit it to memory..._

Outside, the rain builds and builds, cascading off the roof in a ceaseless murmur that promises overflowing gutters and puddles pooling in the yard in the morning. He reaches for a paper, and his first sentence is a simple, heartfelt, _please be safe_.

 

_-_

 

The train refuses to carry them further than Dartford, and barely anyone disembarks with them – the impossible mass of people crowding at the train station are all waiting to go in the other direction.

“There,” Dwalin motions to the army jeep waiting for them by the side of the road, and picks up Thorin's laughably small luggage before he can so much as peep a word of protest.

To his immense surprise, a familiar face sits behind the steering wheel, and Thorin thinks that as far as miracles come, he's probably just used up his full dosage for the remainder of this war.

“Bofur?”

“Sir, yes sir,” his sergeant salutes him lazily at best, grinning happily, “good to see you in one piece. More or less.”

“More or less,” Thorin agrees, climbing inside the car somewhat laboriously. “The same can be said about you! I'm thrilled to see you made it.”

“Now, give me some more credit, Colonel,” Bofur laughs, “first sight of the sky, we ran like hell. We were the first in the sea, and let me tell you right now, peddling water for a day isn't exactly how I'd envisioned our daring escape, but there you go.”

“At least we managed to escape at all,” Thorin sighs, “anyone else who's made it that you know of?”

“Oh, we were all scattered, all over the place,” Bofur admits sourly, guiding the car away from the train station, through the crowd, young and old alike, families with children, families without fathers... Averting his gaze would be a disrespect, Thorin feels.

Bofur recites only a handful of names, and even though they agree they might learn of more yet, the mood isn't improved in the least.

Even less so when they drive out into the plains behind the small town, and see the smoke ahead, far away but easily visible.

“Ain't a pretty sight down there,” Bofur announces into the stunned silence, “three bombings so far, and they expect more, every single night.”

 

And Thorin thinks, _I was born in this city_.

It's stupid to think it's been getting reduced to rubble only because he hasn't managed to do anything to stop it, but the guilt is still there, eating at him. When the sirens start howling overhead late at night on that very same day, and he is ushered into the nearest military bunker, pressed shoulder to shoulder with fellow soldiers and feeling the ground shake below his feet and above his head, he feels, for the first time in so very long, utterly helpless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go! Sorry for the massive delay, I had a bit of trouble writing this fic for a while there. But! We're back on track. Thank you for all your lovely feedback in the meantime, it's really what keeps this fic going! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British Expedition Force is slowly disbanded, units sent into all corners of the world to assist the war effort elsewhere - Europe is swiftly falling into the iron grasp of the Axis powers, but it is not the only continent the war rages on. Lieutenant Colonel Durin faces a difficult decision, to determine his next steps, and those of the remainder of his company - his only guidance is the urge to keep fighting.  
> Meanwhile, rations finally reach the little village of Oakenclough, and right before Christmas, too. The likeness of a brave soldier made from snow is erected in a garden, guarding the little house nearby, and those who have stayed behind try their very best to recapture the holiday spirit and cheer, if only to honor those who won't get to celebrate at all.

The rain shows no signs of stopping. It hammers at their roofs and washes dirt and pebbles down their pathways, day after day, and every momentary reprieve, every minute of clear skies, is used to deal with the aftermath, waterproofing chicken coops, and mopping up front yards, and making sure the water hasn't gotten into the attic... A proper autumn up here.

Bilbo has had the boys outfitted with matching bright yellow raincoats, heavy and actually starting out as _one_ raincoat that he'd sized down considerably after buying it from old Mister Tallmadge who used to be a sailor, and wanted nothing more than a good apple cinnamon cobbler in return, _just like Martha used to make._

Which might incidentally be the very last cobbler Bilbo makes for a while - rationing is finally introduced in full in their little corner of the country, and it is an interesting experience to say the least. Food stamps are distributed unevenly at first, which doesn't really help uphold their credibility - it is only after the other merchants join Mister Proudfoot, the village greengrocer, in confirming that stocks really are that low, and that people will indeed need to utilize the stamps to get to their food, that the situation begins to unravel.

Some stock up for Christmas with an almost frantic urge, as if New Year might never come, until they are reminded that fresh stamps will only be issued some weeks from now, and plundering the grocery store is only alright if you're planning on hosting a Christmas dinner large enough to feed the entire population of Oakenclough, _yes, that means you, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins_.

As far as Bilbo is concerned, even though he's had two more mouths than he is used to to feed for a while now, his pantry will weather the change without a problem - butter and sugar have been in short supply for some time now, so perhaps not as many baked goods as he usually produces, but he's had a leg of ham hanging in the back above the cellar trap door, and bags of potatoes sitting pretty right below it, and his garden has yielded some of the very last carrots and salad, not to mention herbs to be dried and stored for the winter ahead.

He invites Primula and Drogo over when the weather decides to behave for one afternoon, for their annual harvest, this time aided by the very enthusiastic Fili and Kili, who are certainly not allowed on the ladder, but they contend themselves with supervising the boxes that Drogo and Prim fill with Bilbo's father's apples, just as delicious as they were last year, and the year before that.

"One apple a day," Prim flicks Fili's nose before biting into one from her batch, well earned.

"Keeps the hunger away, eh?" Drogo remarks, and Bilbo scowls at him, but the boys seem unperturbed, instead concentrating on the futile task of counting the apples in the boxes on Bilbo's kitchen floor.

"Store them well," Bilbo sighs, "I can always give you more if you run out-"

"It's alright," Prim waves him off, "I'll make dried apple chips, I was thinking it would be a good gift for the family, you know? A bag each, nicely packed, a ribbon on top, right?"

"Ah yes, a lovely reminder of the times of hardship ahead of us," Drogo agrees loftily, and she punches his arm.

"No, I think it sounds nice," Bilbo agrees, "let me join in on that?"

"You've got yourself a deal."

"Six o'clock," announces Drogo, and they all exchange a glance.

"Alright, boys, time to wash up!" Bilbo claps his hands, "dinner will be served!"

It's a habit now, shooing them out of the room quickly enough, and they switch the radio on the second Fili and Kili dutifully disappear.

" _...Shortly thereafter, Liverpool suffered another attack. The influx of people fleeing coastal cities has crippled local infrastructure, and while the government advises everyone to stay put, it is difficult not to want turn on your heel and run, let me tell you, Jack, at the sight of so many cities turned to rubble. It is, um, equally difficult to predict if the next attack on the capital will come today, or in a week, but we have all been reduced to hiding at all times, anyway..._ "

The man continues for a moment until the broadcast starts cutting in and out, quickly becoming impossible to listen to - it doesn't surprise them anymore, since the signal is no doubt horrendous, especially from the very heart of the capital. The reporter talks at length about the other bombings, and implores people to remain vigilant if they are in one of the affected areas, and patient if they're trying to find out about their loved ones in said areas.

"Hope Lobelia's listening," Drogo notes dryly when food stamps are mentioned, yet again, at which the broadcast dies altogether, and they move onto setting the table for dinner somewhat grimly.

This time, the boys seem to have refrained from listening behind the door, sitting down obediently, only for Fili to gasp in surprise when the doorbell rings, and Kili to follow his lead much more theatrically, as is his custom these days.

"It's too late for the postman," Bilbo reminds them gently, leaving them to bounce in their seats in ill-concealed excitement anyway as he goes to answer the door...

"...And it is the postman," he cocks an eyebrow at the sight of the decidedly damp, tired man.

"Apologies for the time, Master Baggins," the postman grumbles, "the post office is a right mess now, what with all them food stamps being given out, we had to move the walks to the evening..."

"That's quite alright," Bilbo nods, "are we the last ones on your road? Won't you come in for a bite?"

"Would that I could," the poor overworked man sighs, "got the mill and old Missus Parker left..."

"Of course you do. Godspeed, it looks like it might start raining again soon."

"You're telling me," the postman gripes, "anyway, this is for you, Master Baggins."

Bilbo's heart leaps at the very official-looking stamped seal on the envelope, and, yet again, the 'CONFIDENTIAL' marked in big block red letters, and he snatches it away before the postman can start asking questions - at this point, everyone in the village knows about his... predicament with the boys and their Uncle, and he's only managed to preserve their privacy thanks to some very strict measures he's adopted, like swatting away gossip and said nosy questions very firmly before they can develop into rumor and assumptions.

The boys' grin makes everything worth the effort every time, anyway, and they reassure him of that right now, snatching the envelope out of his hand hastily, baked potatoes all but forgotten.

"Read out loud, then," Bilbo beckons Fili, who, to his amusement, casts a glance to Primula - yet again, Bilbo has to remind himself that she happens to be his teacher.

"Don't worry," she chuckles, "I won't grade you on this."

A shy smile, and Fili unfolds the paper, his eyes darting across the lines here and there, before he starts reading somewhat uncertainly.

 

_Dear Fili and Kili,_

_I hope you are well. I arrived in London some days ago, and I cannot say how much longer I will stay - my relocation is still being decided. But I’ll be sure to keep you posted, so that you may always have some means of reaching me._

_I don’t know about Oakenclough, but London is drenched by rain almost every day. Stay dry, both of you. I hope school is treating you well. While I’m here, I tried arranging for some of the books from our home to be collected and shipped to you, so we shall see how that goes._

_Oh, and please wait with joining the Home Guard until you both are of proper age, won’t you? I commend you on your bravery, but I’m certain that you can help out some other way, for the time being._

_Be well,_

 

_Uncle Thorin_

 

The boys don’t seem to notice it, mouths full of potatoes, waxing poetic about this and that piece of memorabilia that they hope Uncle Thorin might be able to recover from their old home, but Bilbo can’t shake the feeling that this time, the soldier’s letter was somewhat curt, like a worry he doesn’t want to voice to the boys, rendering his sentences shorter, his words cooler.

He notices Prim’s glances when he stows the second part of the letter to read later, but she doesn’t comment on it, paying attention to her students instead, promising to write them a list of books that might interest them, joined by Drogo, who knows all the good bookstores...

All in all, Bilbo is left alone in his - mostly unfounded - worries, until later that night, when he finally sits down with the letter in his armchair, the boys safely tucked in bed and Prim and Drogo long gone back to their own home, the living room still smelling faintly of apples.

 

_Master Baggins,_

_I wouldn’t wish the sight of wartorn London on any living soul - it is a desolation, I struggle to find any other word for it. The attacks come almost every night, and there is very little we are able to do in terms of predicting them, much less preventing them. We are stuck here for the time being, stuck motionless and incapable of retaliating, and it is endlessly frustrating._

_I did not lie when I said I have no idea where I’ll be relocated - there is no telling where the fight will go to next, it’s as if the entirety of the army is unable to decide, just stalling the inevitable._

_You must forgive me, for the glum tone of this letter - I write hastily, knowing not how much longer I have. It will be dark soon, and the enemy is currently utterly relentless._

_But please, do regale me with your account of the happenings further inland - it is my sincerest hope that your corner of the country retains some peace still. Has rationing had a great impact on your day-to-day lives? How are the news from the front being relayed?_

_I would advise you to wait with mailing your response until I am able to provide you with a reliable address, a means of reaching me - the situation changes by the hour where I am right now, and I genuinely cannot say where I will end up a week, a day from now._

_Please be safe, all of you. Sincerely_

 

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

The urgency with which he writes makes it somewhat difficult to breathe, and Bilbo has to re-read the letter several times to string the sentences together, such is his worry.

He hobbles upstairs to check on the boys, blowing out the candle on their windowsill, ever so careful not to wake them up, and lingers in the doorway a tad longer than usual. It’s infuriating, but the one thing he himself is capable of doing from this far off to assist the Colonel, really is just writing to him and assuring him his nephews are perfectly alright. It seems a laughable assurance, but the Colonel has stated it himself several times - knowing that the boys are doing just fine helps him concentrate on what he’s fighting for. And all that Bilbo can do is hope that that will be enough.

 

-

 

"So, the general idea is, we let the bastard win for the time being?"

"That's about the gist of it," Thorin sighs, and the small room echoes with exasperated groans, Dwalin flinging his boots up on the table, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Pile of shite," he grumbles.

"We don't have to like it," Thorin shrugs, "but France is Hitler's for the time being."

"Fuck that, just send us back, give me five grenades and a butcher's hook and we get France back within the month," Nori waves his hand, clearly annoyed that he isn't allowed to go off and wreak havoc on his lonesome.

"Tempting," Thorin nods, "but we have to sit tight until they reassign us."

"When do you think that will be?" Bofur demands, chewing on his pipe in quiet frustration.

"Difficult to tell. I think we missed our out to go to Tobruk. Apparently they're going to convert a number of infantries into recon companies-"

"Hell, anything that lets us get our hands on the blasted Nazis," Nori erupts, affirmed by a chorus of hear hear's, and Thorin exchanges a vague glance with Dwalin - this is much more hopeless than any of them are willing to admit yet.

It feels strange, not having the force of an entire battalion backing him up. He tries not to think about how many of them he left behind, but the truth is, very few have returned, answered the call mobilizing them back into action as soon as they recuperated from whatever injuries they'd sustained in France. The organization of the aftermath of the Blitzkrieg is chaotic at best, and Thorin despises every second of it, incapable of pinpointing his people, incapable of contacting anyone but the immediate leadership, relying on news they can't even know are real, from countries so far away nobody can quite make sense of what's actually going on there.

The Western Desert Force are currently battling for part after part of Africa, in what appears to be a bit of a cat and mouse game, and division after division are headed either to Italy, or all the way across the sea, to intercept what appears to be a brewing threat, and all the while the Russian bear slowly wakes from slumber across the sea...

Anyone trying to predict any sort of outcome right now is playing a dangerous guessing game, and Thorin has to watch the reality of people being caught up in it, every damn day.

With the current state of things, all he can do is gather whatever resources he can, and command the steaming wreck of his battalion to his best ability - there are no doubt numerous Lieutenants trying to reach him, some he will never hear from again... Right now, he is sitting in a room with no more than twenty other men, and it feels like the times long, long before the war, nothing but boring patrols ahead of them, nothing but a few dozen men under his command, and he knew the name of every single one of them...

Yet again, he feels selfish wishing for those times to return, but he can't exactly chase the thought away.

"You don't strike me as the type to take to the streets."

It's what his men have been doing, and whenever he finds the time, Thorin joins them - simply because it's something concrete to do, offering actual help, to actual people affected by the brunt of the war. Civilians get in their way all the time when they move rubble and clean out half derelict streets, and Thorin is prepared to commend this particular old man for his effort and send him on his way, but then he actually spares some time to look at him properly.

"No! Gandalf? What are you doing here?" he exclaims, only absentmindedly waving off those of his men who have noticed.

"Staying alive against all odds, much like you, it would seem," Thorin receives a fond, if mysterious, smirk. "It's good to see you in one piece."

"Likewise," Thorin regards him a bit suspiciously still, wiping the sweat from his brow, trusting his men to handle the logistics of hauling debris for the time being. "Weren't you shipping off to Africa the last time we talked?"

"Maybe," Gandalf shrugs, that smile never disappearing.

"Oh, of course, I forget. Need to know only, yes?"

"Something like that. How was France?"

How was France. Thorin has also forgotten how blase his old friend tends to be about everything. He has known Gandalf for a decade, or maybe two - it's difficult to remember or accurately pinpoint - and every time they reunite, sometimes after months with no contact whatsoever, Gandalf seems not to have aged a single day. He occupies... what Thorin understands might be a rather important position in the Queen's closest entourage, but he has never found out any more. Gandalf was simply introduced to him as a sort of constant among the higher brass when he got promoted, and he has come to enjoy his company, and learn to never ask about his age.

Thorin and him retreat back among said higher brass, where Gandalf receives many a welcome, ranging from lukewarm and cautious, to downright excited, but he seems to have other things in mind rather than socializing over maps and war tables.

They take their meager dinner to a more secluded spot in the miraculously still standing former brewery that now supplements a working headquarters, and Thorin knows to recognize when someone uses small talk to stall the actual topic they want to open.

"The boys are doing just fine, from what I understand," he sighs, chewing on his mash with no real passion, the tin can filled with letters a reassuring weight in his breast pocket. "They're lucky. Bilbo - Master Baggins takes very good care of them."

"Hmm, I imagine he does," Gandalf appears pleased, puffing on his ancient pipe to bring it to life, glancing at Thorin still every now and then."Oakenclough is a lovely little place."

In his dreams, Thorin has been seeing endless meadows of green, tall grass and brick walls, small houses hidden in cozy valleys, and his boys falling asleep to flickering candlelight on the windowsill, listening to the soft murmur of rain. By now, all of Oakenclough must be half mud, half first snow, and they always loved the first snow so much...

He swallows dryly and fishes in his coat for his own pipe - the original one is nothing but splinters stamped into French soil by now, but this one will do just fine, especially with the tobacco Gandalf gifts him so graciously. The heady taste of it settles his mind some, and he glares at Gandalf with newfound curiosity now.

"Why have you come back, then?"

The old man grins, which is always unsettling, and straightens out the lapels of his coat - never an actual uniform for him, never anything indicating any sort of rank. Thorin is familiar with it, of course, but repeating it brings no particular reassurance.

Which might very well be why his initial reaction is a small, well concealed shudder, when Gandalf announces: "I believe I have a new opportunity for you."

 

_Dear Uncle!!!_

_MERRY CHRIST-MAS!!!!!!!!_

_It started snowing last night and Bilbo let us stay up and watch! He is making dinner for A LOT of people this time. Because the times are bad and we have a lot of food in the pantry, and it's good to share when it's Christmas, he says. We are hoping class will be canceled tomorrow because it's snowing so much! Kili wants to draw you a snowflake. And Bilbo says that even though it's winter, we can still send you flowers - these are apple tree blossoms we pressed in the spring and Bilbo says that the color will last forever now. And we have a big book in our room that we weighed down with other books and there's much more flowers in it, so don't worry, you will not run out!_

_Is it snowing in London? Bilbo is knitting more scarves and hats if you want one. Don't forget to write and tell us where you're going next. And and AND tell us if the shortbread reached you okay because Bilbo is worried it will be nothing but crumbles or get lost halfway._

_Merry Christmas! Win soon!_

_FILI aNd KILI_

"You're kidding, we get shortbread?!"

Thorin snatches the box out of reach before Dwalin can steal it, and shakes it experimentally - there are some crumbles, but at the same time, it doesn't look like it's all turned into quicksand. He unwraps it slowly, almost reverently, padded generously with parchment paper - the crumbles are plentiful, but some cookies have survived almost intact, and Dwalin and him don't hesitate to taste them.

"Oh, god. We died in France and went to heaven."

"Bloody hell, don't eat it all at once!" Thorin exclaims, and the speed at which Dwalin is shoveling the cookies into his mouth slows down somewhat.

"Come on, wartime doesn't exactly require proper etiquette," the Scot waves him off, lazily wiping crumbs off his mustache. "Tell him to send us more?"

"Yes, because where we're going, there's going to be a thousand and one opportunity to sit down and eat shortbread."

"Aye, true. So you've officially agreed to it?"

"No, not yet. What do you think?"

It's been a very long time since they've had the chance to sit down and discuss strategies over coffee, but Christmas is fast approaching, and this might very well be their very last indulgence, for a very long time. The coffee itself tastes like piss, but the shortbread elevates it to truly exquisite levels - the night is deceptively quiet, and everyone else is busy coming up with yet more jumbled and chaotic plans, and so Thorin and Dwalin savor these precious few moments to themselves as much as they humanly can.

Somebody manages to tune the radio to a station that replaces grim news reports with Christmas carols, and as most of them can do nothing but sit on their asses and wait, people eventually, and naturally, seek out each other's company. Suddenly there's a handful of candles lit on a couple of desks, and tea is made in gallons, and it's much more company than they would have preferred, but they don't complain. It's Christmas.

They get to talking about their families back home, or lack thereof, and Thorin finds himself taking the tin can filled with letters and dead flowers in his hands, just like he's done countless times before, turning it over and over. He didn't even get a chance to get the boys anything remotely resembling a present this time, and soon, they might be shipping off half a world away, and this, the same country, though still hundreds of miles apart, is the closest he might be to them ever again.

He only remembers the second part of the letter late that night, cheeks warmed by the handful of sips from the bottle of brandy someone had miraculously procured from... somewhere, and he almost tucks it away and leaves it for tomorrow, but the oil lamp is still on, providing a faint, flickering light, sputtering and complaining, and so he rolls over to his side and squints at the neat cursive.

_Dear Colonel_

_if there is any indication of the war in Oakenclough, it would indeed be these blasted food stamps. I don't particularly mind them, because I grew up with a long-lived tradition of keeping the pantry stocked in the household, but oh, it truly sheds light on the genuine personalities of others, let me tell you._

_I believe I've mentioned my Cousin Lobelia before - how could I have not - and she seems to be spearheading the movement to ruin the last vestiges of Christmas spirit for everyone around her. The fervor with which she seems adamant to let everyone know just how much of a chore it is, having to cook on a budget, is truly impressive. You must understand, it is not like any one of us here has ever been particularly wealthy, but if you didn't know her, you'd think she's practically rural nobility._

_As the boys have informed you, I have indeed taken it upon myself to host a dinner for the closest family members this year, hopefully avoiding last holiday's debacle, and if there is anything left to wish for at Christmas, it would be for you to sit at peace here with us. Though I do not know at all how you like your potatoes - please don't hesitate to provide that absolutely vital piece of information in your next letter, so that I might make future arrangements._

_Until that day, though, please stay safe, and rest a tad easier, perhaps, knowing that your boys are safe, and happy, and well fed to my very best ability._

_I do hope my shortbread will provide at least some faint echo of a holiday mood. There is much more where it came from - indeed I am teaching the boys to bake all sorts of Christmas-related cookies and sweets - but it is up to you to inform us whether it'll be wise to send you any where you're going. Where are you going, again? Do keep in touch._

_Sincerely,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

He laughs quietly to himself, so as not to wake up anyone around him, and the last ritual before going to bed is tucking the paper away into the tin can, making sure it's in place, the flowers safe and sound.

And it is a good thing, it turns out, that he decided to read it late that night, because the very next morning, there is very little room for anything but work. Suddenly, there is talk of Hitler preparing to invade the Soviet Union, and the sinister machine of war moves one more step ahead.

Gandalf is not difficult to find, always hovering at the edges of all the important decisions, and he probably knows Thorin's answer even before he opens his mouth.

"We'll go," Thorin tells him firmly, "I just have one request, if you don't mind."

"Anything for you, old friend," Gandalf is smiling, and it doesn't reassure Thorin in the slightest.

-

It takes about a week for the entirety of their valley to become snowed in. Bilbo doesn't particularly mind - it's not like he is in the habit of leaving the house too often anyway, unless he absolutely has to, and for their part, the boys are absolutely overjoyed.

The snowman that soon stands proud in the backyard is clearly supposed to be the brave Uncle Thorin, and is soon outfitted with a very old coat that Bilbo discovers in the attic, and probably once belonged to his father, in addition to the carrot nose and gun made out of a stick in his hand - there are mornings when Bilbo hasn't quite managed to wake up yet, and the solitary figure lurking in his garden manages to scare the daylights out of him, but the boys adore him.

Christmas Eve is an endeavor he prepares many days in advance for - their tiny house can't quite host the masses that Lobelia's country mansion swallows every holiday, but then again, he never meant to invite masses in the first place. Still, he wants everything to be up to his standards, which involves employing Drogo to help him carry the old table downstairs, until it takes up almost all of the living room, and Prim and the boys set it to their best ability. Chairs are mismatched, and so are plates and cutlery, but Bilbo thinks it will do. Indeed, it will do.

The general mood in Oakenclough has suffered greatly, what with the petty squabbles often turned blood feuds, over the blasted rations among everything else, but Bilbo has been led to believe that Christmas should be a time for forgiveness, and snatching a bit of peace of mind, no matter how short-lived. And yet, he can't quite shake the vague feeling of guilt, thinking of all the people who will not get to celebrate Christmas properly this year, their dear Colonel no doubt among them.

"Penny for your thoughts," Primula chimes in, the two of them expertly maneuvering around each other in the tiny, cramped kitchen, and Bilbo scowls at her.

"Mostly worried there won't be enough gravy," he decides, and she pfft's.

"I saw the pot, there's enough to drown our entire extended family."

"Yes, well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Might spruce up the party," Prim chuckles, but is interrupted by Fili announcing visitors before she can finish her murderous ideations.

Bilbo has his hands full in the coming hour or three, so there really is no actual time and space to voice his _real_ concerns - not that he's planning on it either way. The "party", as Prim continues calling it, provides the necessary distraction, he supposes, stops him thinking about all the people not getting to celebrate Christmas properly, about the one measly box of shortbread in place of a proper gift, probably not even reaching its destination... He doesn't necessarily understand his own feelings of hopelessness, surrounded by grinning faces and enough food to, indeed, feed the aforementioned battalion, but they are there nevertheless.

His eyes follow the boys around, so much more confident now than they were a year ago, fidgeting in Lobelia's oversized chairs, big frightened eyes and not many words altogether... He should be proud of himself, should be overjoyed at their progress, but as it is, the only feeling he can't shake right now, is a heavy, looming, dull dread of some sort.

War talk is strictly prohibited around the dinner table, as there are more children present than Fili and Kili after all, and so they manage a lovely evening that almost feels like the old times, almost feels tangibly happy, and Bilbo in turn manages not to let his chagrin show. It is only very late that night, as he finds himself incapable of sleeping and spends an inordinate amount of time cleaning in the kitchen and eating leftover gingerbread, that it assaults him in full.

Soft snowflakes settle on the hunched silhouettes of his rose hip bushes, and the shoulders of the snow soldier alike, and Bilbo stares, watches for movement, clutching his very belated cup of tea, mesmerized. Pain throbs up his leg into the small of his back every now and then, the aftermath of spending longer than usual on his feet today, but he successfully ignores it.

"Bilbo?"

"What is it, darling?"

He doesn't even have to turn around to know it's Kili sneaking into the kitchen, and he should perhaps be more surprised than this.

"You can't sleep? Come here."

Tiny bare feet pitter-patter on the kitchen tiles towards him - the boy has never taken a particular liking to socks, even in winter - and soon enough, Kili is climbing into his lap quite unceremoniously. If there is one thing cohabiting with children has taught Bilbo, it's that they require much more affection than he's used to doling out, and they aren't afraid to ask for it.

"Is Uncle going to be here next year?" the boy asks, curling up against the softness of Bilbo's sweater.

"I don't know," Bilbo answers truthfully, "soon. I hope."

"The bed is really small," Kili mumbles into Bilbo's chest.

"...Which is a problem how?"

"Where will Uncle stay when he comes back?"

A heavy lump of snow slides off a branch outside, and they can hear the distant, quiet thud of it, even from inside. Bilbo's heart is suddenly hammering. _When he comes back, he's most probably going to take you away from me._

"I'm sure we'll figure something out, don't you worry."

"Because..." Kili murmurs, tiny fist grabbing Bilbo's sleeve.

"Yes?"

"Because I like it here."

"...Oh? Well, I'm really glad to hear that," Bilbo sighs - it's a good thing it's dark and Kili has no way of seeing his face right now.

"And Mum always used to say..."

"What did she used to say?"

"She wanted us to move to the country... side. Countryside."

"She said that, did she?" Bilbo smiles into the boy's hair, swallowing past the lump of hurt in his throat.

"...I think so."

"Do you remember much of her?" Bilbo asks, and immediately regrets it, _what kind of a question is that to ask an orphan_ , but Kili doesn't seem to be too affected.

"Maybe," he speculates in a tinny voice, "she was pretty. And she sang a lot."

"Oh my," Bilbo chuckles, discretely wiping at the single tear traitorously escaping the corner of his eye. "I'm sure I would have loved to meet her."

"Her name is Dis. She got really sick."

"I see."

"Bilbo?"

"Yes, Kili."

"I want to go back to bed now."

"Alright, darling," Bilbo huffs, straightening out, "come now. You know I can't carry you."

"I know," Kili peeps, hopping off Bilbo's lap, hand automatically reaching up.

Together, they climb the stairs, slowly and carefully on Bilbo's part, and the candle on the windowsill is still burning, a flickering glint, and Bilbo waits for Kili to close his eyes before blowing it out.

"Goodnight," he whispers, and Kili only sighs something unintelligible, turning onto his side, closer to his brother. Outside, the snow keeps falling.

 

There's so much of it the next day that they have to shovel it away from the door to even make it outside proper, and the makeshift Colonel in the front yard carries a fresh weight on his icy shoulders. School is closed until after New Year's, and the boys enjoy that fact to their hearts' content - Bilbo wars with himself at first, but in the end he allows Fili to lead his brother to the hill above the school on his own. There will be enough adults there to oversee the children, he tells himself, and besides, it's not like he is exactly capable of running after them at any rate...

He wonders what Uncle Thorin would have to say about that, sometimes.

The radio speaks of the need to celebrate holidays anyway, and support our sons and fathers on the front with some good old-fashioned cheer, and even though the everyday reality is vastly different from what everyone would have them believe, they make do. They make do.

Until, of course, they are finally faced with the fact that nobody really _makes do_ in times of war.

The package arrives alongside a tall man in an old, faded military coat and a very peculiar hat, and Bilbo limps to the door warily, roused from his afternoon nap by an equally worried Fili, but it takes him the entirety of about two seconds to recognize the newcomer, and go from surprise, to excitement, all the way to a very vague, but very pressing, concern.

"...Gandalf," he scowls at the tall stranger, and receives a bright grin in response.

"My dear Bilbo! It's been too long. Happy holidays!"

"And to you, though they're mostly over now. ...Won't you come in?" Bilbo offers reluctantly, and Gandalf does, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like it hasn't been ages since they saw each other last.

"This little house is as cozy as I recall it," Gandalf muses, nearly hitting his head on the chandelier in the front room, proceeding to smile at the boys, "all the cozier for its new inhabitants, of course! I believe I have something from your Uncle, from his brief stay in London."

"He has moved on from there, then?" Bilbo frowns, while the boys' eyes grow about three sizes at the sight of the box he procures seemingly from nowhere - absentmindedly, Bilbo waves his permission at them, and Fili accepts it cautiously, huffing with surprise at how heavy it is.

It is, as it turns out, mostly filled with books, a handful of volumes of fairy tales, some bound beautifully in rich leather, some fraying paperbacks, well loved and all but falling apart, suggesting Fili and Kili aren't the first to have ever received their contents. They find a small engraved box of backgammon, as well as the wooden figurine of a horse, and a few scattered tin soldiers, and Bilbo can see it in the boys' eyes, the wonder, making the couple of battered toys and belongings shine diamond bright in their point of view.

He orders them to carry everything up to their room, where he correctly assumes they will simply stay to play with everything, while he sits Gandalf down, a steaming kettle of tea in between them, and asks him everything he's been meaning to ask someone with actual access for ages now.

It feels so strange, actually getting firsthand feedback from the brunt of the war effort - he doesn't pretend to understand Gandalf's position, to Bilbo he will always be his old history professor in London, and later his colleague as well, no matter how many medals and commendations he remembers seeing in his office at different points in time. But Gandalf now speaks of where the actual people fighting in the actual war are going, where the entire country seems to be going, and sitting at his tiny table in his tiny kitchen, hidden away in his little corner of the world, Bilbo feels so detached from everything, the exact opposite of included, and his guilt comes back, gnawing at his nerves.

"The Colonel, and what remains of his battalion, shipped off to Africa just last week," Gandalf mentions as if he's simply recapitulating the weather, "before he went, he asked me to visit his old home, and deliver what I could to his nephews. I thought it would be an excellent opportunity to come visit."

"But that is not the only reason you are here, surely," Bilbo feels like he's been gently frowning for the past half hour. There is an incessant tension in between his eyes.

"How do you mean?"

"This is a very small village, even though we are scattered across at least a dozen hills. Everybody notices soldiers marching in and setting up camp in the square, Gandalf."

"A necessary stop, from what I understand. On their way to Lancaster, you see."

"Well, as long as they don't take half the town away with them," Bilbo grumbles, clutching his cup tighter - Gandalf has a very mysterious smile on his face, one that Bilbo remembers getting annoyed over years ago.

"Only those willing and able to fight," Gandalf doesn't sugarcoat the topic, and Bilbo knows he really means, _you'll be lucky if it's only a half_.

The part of the letter meant for him, he discovers helping the boys sort through their newly acquired books, tucked into a thin volume that neither Fili nor Kili recognize, or particularly care for - there are no pictures after all, and it is, as it turns out, a collection of poems by Keats.

_Master Baggins,_

_it is difficult to find the right words here, in the middle of demolished London, some that aren't tainted by the misery around me. Despite all of that, I want to wish you a very merry Christmas. For those who have managed to avoid fighting in a war, it is the season for gratitude, or so I understand - and I am immensely grateful for the knowledge that my nephews have found a safe home with you._

_I send my regards alongside a package and our mutual friend, and I sincerely hope all of it reaches you without a hitch. Gandalf has been instrumental in orchestrating mine and my company's next steps, and it was he who suggested we try our luck in Africa, where the fight rages the fiercest right now. Included you will find the means of reaching me, and even though I cannot guarantee our correspondence will continue as fluently as before, as there are some precautions in place where I'm going, but I wish for it to continue nevertheless._

_Hopefully you will not think me improper, but I instructed Gandalf to lift this particular book from my house, a collection of poems - it used to belong to my late sister, and I always found it most uplifting when she read to my brother and me from it. Keats is excellent company when one is feeling under the weather._

_I wish you the very best in the coming year, and though I also wish I could proclaim that the war will be ended before it finishes, I must be more realistic than that._

_Until that happens, do be well, and perhaps read a bit of Keats every now and then, if that sort of thing interests you at all._

_Sincerely yours_

_Lt Col Thorin Durin_

 

The photograph falls out when he first opens the book, landing in his lap, and he turns it over carefully. _London, 1935,_ the back reads, in a neat cursive he doesn’t think is the Colonel’s, and on the front... A group of people, a man and a woman in the center - he cradles in his arms a familiar boy with an untamable mane of dark curls, while she holds the hand of his brother, both of them smiling bright at their parents, both of them so very _happy._

“Dis,” Bilbo exhales, “that was her name. Of course.”

She stands tall and proud, dark hair in very fashionable waves, and even though the quality of the picture isn’t the highest, the intensity of her eyes is obvious, the proud lines of her beautiful face. The pleasant, skinny man holding Kili must be her husband, because the man standing next to her is so similar to her in every aspect of his visage, that it can’t be anyone else but the fabled Lieutenant Colonel.

Even here, he is wearing a uniform, and Bilbo traces the collection of medals with his finger almost absentmindedly. There is only the faintest hint of a smile gracing his strict features, and yet he appears pleased, relaxed. A soldier’s cap under his arm, a formidable beard, shoulders broad, the same arch to his commanding brow that his sister has, that makes them both appear like they are always slightly frowning about something...

“Hello,” Bilbo murmurs, somewhat pointlessly, “nice to finally meet you.”

 

-

 

It’s the heat that’s going to get them, it’s obvious now - what a far cry from the beginnings of snow in England, Thorin laments silently as the jeeps carry him and his men into the heart of the camp, leaving swirls of sand in their wake.

They celebrated the arrival of the new year on the road, crossing the sea by any means necessary, which in their case meant crammed into any and all plane cargo holds they could find, and now they are here, and... if it is hope Thorin is searching for, he isn’t so certain he’ll ever find it on this continent.

The Western Desert Campaign has had its successes, and it has had its failures, but if one thing is certain, it’s that the British came a tad unprepared for the climate. Thorin was hearing scattered messages of difficulties advancing, and operations botched or downright canceled due to exhaustion and a lack of resources, even before he ever decided to set foot here...

But it is where the real fight is, where the chance to actually _contribute_ lies, and he will be damned if he doesn’t take it.

Cyrenaica is still nothing but a shadow on the horizon, a foothold waiting to be claimed, but at least he doesn’t sense the same disorganization that riddled the beginning of the effort in mainland Europe - the first time he lays his eyes on the field of tanks at their disposal, he feels... if not a calm, then at least a nudge of reassurance, or whatever passes for reassurance in these times.

His men are set up amiably enough, and he makes sure to know of their movements at all times, not to keen on losing them to a dozen different units. He himself has a new leadership to acquaint himself with - O’Connor is a difficult man to get a hold of, but Thorin met him several times, ages ago, so he isn’t too worried about that.

He happens upon a number of familiar faces in his first week in the encampment, some here for two years, some for two months, fresh like him... Some, as it turns out, back to haunt him.

The company comes riding in one morning, covered in a fine layer of red dust, their vehicles, their uniforms, all showing many signs of wear and tear, but the mood appears more or less victorious, everyone greeting them enthusiastically, some even cheering as the cars pass them.

“The 1st Armoured Brigade returning, sir,” the boy who has been accompanying Thorin and showing him around for the past week pipes up, “only a handful companies, now, sir. There’s talk of redeployment. They were tasked with a quick recon and capture, but they managed to get us a way into Cyrenaica the other day...”

But Thorin is long past listening now - the hot desert air suddenly bites at his skin, and a dull lump settles in his lungs, a throb of anger.

“I was not aware there had been a change in command,” he utters, and the young man follows his gaze, only to respond inappropriately cheerfully.

“Oh, yes! Upon their arrival in Libya, they were assigned Lieutenant-Colonel-”

“Lieutenant-Colonel Oropherion, yes, I can see that,” Thorin growls.

The man looks inordinately put together, even here, among sand that gets everywhere, among the heat - none of it seems to affect him, and he hops out of the car swiftly, distributing a handful of orders as he marches towards where Thorin is standing, presumably to report to those hiding in the relative cool of the tent behind. This encounter can’t be avoided, Thorin admits bitterly.

He stands stock still as the man, predictably, notices him, stops, sizes him up and down, and rewards him with the wickedest grin, changing course to come stand nose to nose with him.

“Well, if this isn’t a lucky day for the Western Desert Force,” he proclaims with a cool smile, “did they finally run out of suitable officers to send us?”

“On the contrary,” Thorin stands his ground, “I was informed that you were deployed here, and I rushed over to prevent _yet another_ international incident from losing us a battle or five.”

The man’s regal features freeze in ill-concealed disdain, if only for a second, and Thorin’s eyes are drawn to the scar fanning out across his entire cheek, faded now, but still...

“Welcome to Africa. Glad you could make it,” the Lieutenant Colonel smiles sourly, and Thorin rewards him with the same.

“Happy to be here,” he nods, tapping the side of his face softly, for no one but the man standing before him to see, “watch out for that sunburn.”

 _Thranduil Oropherion,_ he sighs inwardly as he turns away, to leave the man scowling, _they did warn me about running into snakes in the desert._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHRIST ALMIGHTY this took so long. I dealt with an immense writer's block, entered a new fandom, couldn't touch Bagginshield for months for some reason, only to end up back here - I still adore this story to bits, and I do have a very clear idea of which direction I want to take it in, so now I just gotta stick with it!  
> You guys have been so wonderful and patient, and I want to thank you all for that - without the constant encouragement, people telling me that they still enjoy my writing and want to see this story finished, I don't think I would or could have restarted. So, here we are! A little less from Thorin this time around, but we'll make up for it next time, African heat and old nemeses resurfacing and all ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Africa is a difficult battlefield - the allied forces struggle with equipment entirely insufficient for the conditions, as well the exhaustion and general dissatisfaction among the troops. In spite of all that, a victory is claimed in the form of the province of Cyrenaica - but holding this important point might prove more difficult than previously thought possible, when a new threat has the attention of the Allies turning to, quite literally, the other side of the world, and away from the threat still looming on the horizon.  
> Meanwhile in England, the endless cacophony of war has the first truly personal cost for Bilbo.

There is only one season in the desert - the neverending, relentless scorch of the sun, and the ever-present sand would suggest a particularly cruel version of summer, but that doesn’t take into account the atrociously low temperatures at night, like the weather is mocking them, burning them to a crisp only to leave their teeth chattering with the cold the second the sun sinks below the horizon.

It is severely detrimental to both their progress and their morale, and Thorin is more or less completely convinced that at some point during his service, he did something absolutely horrible he doesn’t remember, and is currently paying his dues in Hell itself.

In spite of all that, actual progress is being made, somehow. Holding the entirety of Cyrenaica is messy business, chaotic business, but they are making do. Casualties are there, they always are, but Thorin, like many of his peers, has long since forced himself to look past individuals, and at the big picture - progress is happening, which is the only way to prevent people dying  _ in the future. _

He himself spends more time in the field than he used to, entirely by choice - the dizzying heat of the desert beats the stale air by the war table any day. Besides, he doesn’t directly command  _ anyone _ . Technicalities are a favorite pastime in the army, and Thorin’s title does grant him passage wherever, but it doesn’t give him any actual  _ people _ to further his strategies. No, right now, his talents are being put to good, albeit frustrating in his opinion, use as a sort of link between O’Connor and the Australians - which means following a company entirely foreign to him around, and also communicating rather closely with their leadership. In other words, if he was wondering before where it might be that he’d one day find his end, he is now convinced it will be here, grinding sand between his teeth as he is forced to act civil around Thranduil Oropherion.

“You are not honestly suggesting what I think you are.”

“Why? Will we not get our support?”

The two of them are currently surveilling the fledgling operation unfolding before them, although  _ surveilling _ might not be the best term for narrowing their eyes against the sun and the flying sand alike, squinting to see better. From where their men are setting up a forward camp, Thorin and Thranduil probably seem perfectly poised and professional, hands clasped behind their backs as they converse in nothing but the most polite manner, but up here, Thorin thinks he might burst from frustration any second now.

“You wouldn’t need  _ support, _ ” he grumbles, “you’d need a miracle. This is why we are supposed to work together, if you recall - this terrain is working against all of us, and our strength  _ does _ currently lie in great numbers, whether you like it or not. If we don’t find a way to hold Cyrenaica with fewer troops-”

“But this  _ is _ the way to hold it with fewer troops, I keep telling you,” Thranduil sighs, all blase and disinterested, like he’s explaining this problem to a small child, “there is no need for us to hold back when-”

“There is  _ every _ need for us to hold back! We have absolutely no idea what’s going on inside that siege, no way of knowing when, and  _ where, _ the Italians will choose to come out, not to mention - yes? What is it?”

“Apologies, sir!” the bedraggled soldier does his best with his formal salute, considering their surroundings, and the wind deciding to whip them all with thousands of needles of hot sand at an increasing intensity. “Urgent news from headquarters!”

“Go on,” Thorin frowns.

“They’ve managed to decrypt some of the Italian transmissions, sir! Your presence is requested back at base immediately, sir!”

“Would that be me or him?” Thorin sighs, having been forced to explain the confusing status quo far too many times. “Is this O’Con- the General asking? Who is supposed to go, soldier?”

“Let the poor footman catch his breath,” Thranduil addresses the young corporal the same way others would address a piece of furniture inconveniently in the way, “we both go. I trust in my people, and their ability to finish up here. Do you? Don’t take too long to answer, my car is leaving in a minute.”

 

_ Always too bloody eager for his own good, _ Thorin muses bitterly, squished in the back seat with a man he’d never hoped to work with again, the jeep finding its way through the desert as any other vehicle unaccustomed to its driveway shifting from under its wheels every now and then would, which is highly unsteadily. His own quest here, for now, is to remain  _ relevant, _ above all, busy himself enough to forget the fact that his battalion doesn’t officially exist anymore, the fact that there are too many people he couldn’t bring with because they couldn’t be brought with  _ anywhere _ anymore, the tally constantly running in his head, marking off days, marking off dead soldiers not by name or face, but usually by rank, the company they belonged to, the space they occupied and that is now empty, but only for a second, nothing but a flash of time in the grand scope of things, ready to be refilled by yet another expressionless young man to be swallowed by the desert.

“This might be good news, you know,” Oropherion offers jovially, always perfectly straight in his seat while Thorin searches for any moment to be allowed to slouch, always clean and fresh, while Thorin feels the sand creeping into the wrinkles of his face and aging him, a year every day.

“I’ll hold off the celebrations until after we hear what’s going on, if you don’t mind,” he utters, squaring his shoulders against the teeth-shattering rattling of the jeep, wondering if he might be able to find some sort of rhythm in it after all, something that would allow him a short nap in the time it takes the vehicle to cross the dunes and carry them back to the base.

 

The news  _ is _ good, and surprisingly so. The Italians have been discovered, letting slip their escape routes  _ and _ the time frame in which they hope to retreat, and the entirety of the base is suddenly at an uproar. A plan is devised lightning-quick - no time or need to linger, if they wish to weaken the enemy - and Thorin is, yet again, riding with the Australians. He would protest, he is  _ planning _ on protesting rather vehemently, but as of right now, it is important to him to be where the fight is. And Thranduil Oropherion, for all his regal hesitance and smarmy ways, will not refuse the chance to lead the charge about to intercept the threat, of course he isn’t.

Nobody sleeps that night, the hubbub of the machine of war getting ready to take one more step forward keeping everyone up anyway, but Thorin attempts to steal a moment or two to himself anyway, especially with his correspondence making its way into his hands at long last. Among the usual, he finds what he is looking forward to the most, and unfolds the letter carefully - this time, the paper has suffered an actual onslaught of color, and he traces his fingertips over the uneven bumps and lumps, the miniscule tears where Kili’s colored pencil drove down too hard and pushed through. His writing is uneven still, and it is obvious that he couldn’t be bothered to keep it up long, Fili’s much neater handwriting taking over very soon, but it is still an achievement Thorin wishes he were able to commend his nephew on in person.

 

_ DEAR UNCLE, _

 

_ WE SAW GANDALF NICE MAN. HE GAVE US BOOKS. _

 

_ Thank you for sending them. We will bring them to school. Fatty Bolger wants to borrow ~~Hukl~~ ~~Hucklereb~~ Huckleberry Finn, but I said only if he lets me play with his tin soldiers. Sometimes I stay there after school and we do homework together. We want spring to come now because then we can go up on the hill behind the village and build our own BUNKER. Just for us and we will not let anyone in who doesn’t know the password. _

_ School is good but Mr Tanner who teaches Math wants to go to war now too, so I don’t know who will teach us from now on. I don’t like Math anyway so maybe nobody would be good. _

_ Is it hot in Africa? What color is sand? We read about an animal called camel in class, is it there? Kili will try to draw one and I will try to draw one and you must write back to tell us which one looks more real. _

_ Write back soon please. _

 

_ Fili and KILI KILI KILI KILI KILI KILI KILI _

 

Thorin laughs to himself, closing his eyes briefly, thinking, of all things, the last camel he saw, before he picks up the second part of the letter - it has become a sort of an unspoken habit of theirs, now, writing to each other at great lengths, and the thickness of not one, but three sheets of paper covered in writing back to back, is very reassuring in Thorin’s hands.

 

_ Dear Colonel, _

 

_ Happy New Year! I hear needless cheer can often have the desired effect of actually working when one least expects it, and I confess I am clueless as to how to cheer you on otherwise. There is no use lying to ourselves, or anyone else, about the levity of the situation. Oakenclough is swiftly becoming a sort of gathering ground for young men from neighboring villages and farms, some even travel here from as far as Fleetwood, by the sea - all with one goal in mind, and that is to join the army and travel with this group to... Wherever they are off to. I don’t twice wish to know. _

_ I was overjoyed the day Gandalf knocked on my door, but I will attest to a certain amount of alarm as well. If you know him as well as I do - and from the way he speaks of you, I imagine you do - you will agree that he is not the easiest man to get the truth out of. He appears out of nowhere, after years of barely contacting me, and hopes, in his words, only for ‘a pleasant chat’? When he called on me - my goodness, close to two years ago now! And he explained the entire situation with you and the boys, I was not hesitant because I didn’t know how to do the right thing, no. I was wary because I hadn’t heard from him in ages before that! _

_ Alas, here he is, and his peculiar skill of making one question their very being has not, I’m happy to report, diminished with age. I know I am physically unable to fight in this war, and yet he has me asking myself whether I’m doing enough at all. Even though he claims differently. Even though he ‘could not be more thrilled with the second home you’ve created for the boys, Bilbo Baggins’. Please, do not misconstrue this as incessant complaining - or, you know what, perhaps that’s exactly what it is... _

 

And so on, and so forth. A soft smile never leaves Thorin as he reads through the entire thing - Bilbo has a way with words many would envy him, and his self-deprecation is an endearing trait, one that brings Thorin endless amusement. Bilbo thanks him for the Keats, a somewhat unconventional gesture Thorin wasn’t even sure he should be making in the first place, and ponders the possibility of sending him a book of his own choosing, quick to correct himself and call the idea ludicrous, however.

Yet again, Thorin wishes these were different circumstances, and they might write to each other more regularly, they might exchange more than a handful words of vague comfort, and the occasional pressed flower... But then again, had their circumstances been  _ that _ different, their paths may never have crossed at all.

Before he addresses his own response, to Bilbo and the boys alike, he attempts the sketch of a camel.

 

-

 

There exists a brief period between the dusk of winter and the true arrival of spring, not quite warm enough to shed any layers yet, but not cold enough to freeze their windows shut anymore, and Bilbo's mother used to call it mud season, if he remembers correctly, and hated it just as much as he does now. He can see the fresh buds on the tree branches, the bursts of snowdrops poking their pale, bowed heads through the last of the snow, all of nature waiting with bated breath for the thaw to really begin... But in the meantime, all they get is, indeed,  _ mud _ . And rain, mustn't forget the rain.

But much like everything young and growing, the boys treat the coming of spring with excitement, and don't care for the conditions in the least, as proven by the unusual amount of washing Bilbo is forced to do, receiving them home from school trampled and muddied almost every day - it is not within the realm of his child-wrangling skills to convince them that it's hardly the same, rolling around in fresh, crisp white snow, and chasing the remainders of it and stepping knee deep in a puddle.

"School's out tomorrow," Fili announces casually while Bilbo is in the midst of one such washing session, the boy helping with hanging up the laundry while wearing only his oldest sweater, too short for him now, not even reaching his wrists, and tights with a very fashionable hole on each thumb - the price one has to pay, getting all their other clothes dirtied beyond recognition.

"Oh, it is, is it? How come this time?"

"Mr Tanner is leaving, remember?" Fili sighs, "Miss Prim said she might find a replacement, but for now, no Math."

"No Math," Bilbo mutters, shaking his head.

Such is the price of maintaining a small, rural school - the teachers tend to have their own jobs to get to, children tend to be scarce, and sometimes, that amounts to no more than one subject a day. And sometimes, a war gets in the way, and they don't even get that.

"And Primula despises anything above first grade math, too..." Bilbo recalls with some fondness, and Fili snickers, balancing on his stool, accepting another fresh heap of clothes from Bilbo - the sky is as unpredictable as northern English skies get, promising rain when they least expect it, and so their clotheslines temporarily take up the entirety of the living room, the fireplace working overtime to dry everything before the boys need to go out again.

"And Miss Proudfoot is sick at home, too," Fili offers conversationally, "so - no school."

Miss Proudfoot is almost seventy at this point, and living alone on the far side of the village, in a house that has been too large for her ever since her husband passed, and Bilbo makes a mental note to ask after her the first chance he gets.

But for now, he thinks of Mr Tanner too, a friend of Primula's husband's, around their age, having returned from his studies somewhere far fancier than Oakenclough several years ago, and staying on account of his newfound love... She left him, he never did, and became as much a part of the village as the oak in the square, and now, he seems to have discovered some unforeseen merit in leaving this life behind, and setting out to war. Quite suddenly, Bilbo feels a lingering nostalgia, for a man he's barely ever spoken to outside the usual polite hello, a man who is now tidying up his small cottage around the corner from the school, leaving his possessions behind, all his books and his rusty bicycle, _ so young, entirely too young... _

His gloomy train of thought comes to a halt when Kili announces himself, having been leafing through a picture book entirely silently up until that point, huddled closest to the fire, nothing but a bundle of blankets - but now he springs up, palms pressed up on the window, like a kitten birdwatching.

"What is it?" Bilbo demands, and Fili leaves his duties behind, joining his brother by the window as well.

"It's Miss Prim with Drogo!" he announces, "did you invite them? Do you think they're bringing us the post?"

It's been weeks. The last letter they received from Uncle Thorin described him about to ship off to Africa, and the boys have been anxious for an update ever since - thus every single person passing through their door must first claim whether or not they have, by some miracle, come across a fresh delivery of letters.

"I don't know," Bilbo admits, moving to see out of the window as well, "and I don't remember inviting them, but we'll receive them all the same, I suppose."

 

In retrospect, perhaps he should have expected something out of the ordinary when Prim didn’t return his wave, or when she looked the boys up and down in the door, forgetting that school was out... Or when Drogo and her politely requested to speak to him alone.

Drogo does most of the talking, and he explains his reasons eloquently enough, of course, he’s nothing if not eloquent, and Bilbo can do nothing but sit and stare, from him to Primula, sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, eyes glazed over, unfocused, an almost deathly pallor to her face.

“You’re... I mean... When?” he manages, and Drogo sighs, hangs his head, his hand finding Prim’s, and finding it unresponsive to his touch.

“The remainder of the militia is leaving Cockerham the day after tomorrow. I’d rather... I think it’s better to join them, than make my own luck and travel to Lancaster on my own, you see, I...”

_ Too young, _ Bilbo wants to point out,  _ too young, both of you. If it is the future you want to fight for, shouldn’t you make sure there is anything worth waging a war over in it? _ There is a strange, bitter taste in his mouth that he can’t quite name, and a dull dread every time he looks at Drogo, strong and healthy and  _ so very determined _ .

“I don’t believe I’ll actually see any brunt of the real fight any time soon,” he continues, “they tell me people, entire squads, are getting reassigned left and right from London, who knows where I’ll end up...”

Primula lets slip something that might be a scoff or a whimper, it’s difficult to tell.

“The war might end soon, anyway,” Drogo is clearly forcing optimism into his voice, into this entire conversation, “if they manage to intercept the Russians in time-”

“You don’t know that,” she interrupts him quietly, but sternly.

“Well, would you not prefer it to be over sooner, rather than later?” he offers a smile, but it is not received fondly, if at all.

“I would prefer you not to engage in it at all,” she states, her features steel.

 

And so on, and so forth. The boys rejoin them eventually, and thus the conversation must veer towards pleasanter topics, but the heaviness in Bilbo’s chest never lifts - he doubts it ever will, for a long time now, come to think of it. They eat together, all of them, and though Fili and Kili are rather apt at holding lunchtime conversation all on their lonesome, even they probably sense, in that strange way children are capable of sensing almost everything, that the silence demands to be stronger this time.

Bilbo can see it in Fili’s eyes, his gaze darting from one adult to another, the upcoming questions that he is not prepared or equipped to answer in the slightest, and he tries to brace himself for them, to no avail.

“If you need anything-” he manages to capture the fraction of a moment alone with Prim when they’re seeing them out the door, and the look she casts him might haunt him for the coming days - there’s very little emotion in it, a wall being built before his very eyes to keep what hurts inside, and everyone attempting to peek in, firmly out.

“It’s fine,” she nods sternly, then, as if the last hour didn’t happen at all, as if this is just another friendly afternoon spent with the family: “Oh, I almost forgot. We did come by your post.”

 

_ Dear Master Baggins, _

 

_ Wartime does put a certain perspective on the various, and continuous, suffering of mankind. There is not a man in this desert who does not wish they were back in dreary, muddy France, however skewed that sounds. We originally arrived here to stall the Italians, exhaust them until they surrendered, but inevitably, the fighting swelled, and now it seems an all-out confrontation is upon us. Not to worry, however, we still hold the upper hand in this conflict. _

_ In the meantime, I marvel at the constant annoyance that is sand - mud was much easier to wash off and out of things, I can attest to as much. But no, sand travels, and you go from finding it inside your shoes and carrying it with you to bed in your hair, to discovering it in your morning cup of coffee. _

_ But perhaps it would be wise of me not to bore you with a climate report - it is not the most riveting topic of conversation. We did start discussing some of your favorite authors, did we not? I am glad that making sure that collection of Keats found its way to you has turned out to be a good idea. _

_ And you are right - needless cheer is in low stock around here, and I am relieved to hear that some can still be found on your side of the world. However, I am not half pleased to hear about Gandalf giving you grief - or at least that’s the idea I got from the way you write about him. I’ve no doubt that his intentions are good, but however kind he has always been, these days men like him, and indeed, me, bring with them the unpleasant realities of war wherever they go... _

 

Unpleasant realities of war. That’s one term for it, Bilbo supposes. The boys learn of Drogo’s departure eventually, of course they do, and he’s just relieved they miss the event due to school - the adults present have a difficult enough time bearing it, anyway.

There’s barely an able-bodied man left in Oakenclough and the surrounding villages at this point, save for the handful of farmers, and either those too old, or too young. As far as Bilbo knows, he himself is the only one who gets to stay for medical reasons, and he can’t quite say it makes him feel particularly good.  _ Nothing _ about this feels good.

Primula holds her own seeing her husband off, holds her own embracing and kissing him one last time, ordering him to come back to her - even holds her own against all the other women weeping and searching for support.

Holds her own for the entirety of their very slow walk from the village to her house, Bilbo’s tempo allowing for a lot of talk that never comes, the two of them mostly silent, a rare occurrence. Lost in thought, or attempting not to think of anything at all, who knows.

Holds her own until they walk into her kitchen and she sees the white of an embroidered handkerchief on her table, which she’d meant to give Drogo - that is the moment she breaks, and Bilbo doesn’t know better than to hold her, and let her cry, and offer empty promises about the relative safety of young men going off to fight in a war for the entire world.

What else is there to do, really?

 

-

 

“Push forward, boys, come on! Just a little while longer!”

Sand is impossible to run in, shifting below their boots, sinking, capturing their ankles - but run they must, most of their vehicles either stuck or unreachable at this point. Night is swiftly falling, and this particular pursuit has been going on for two of them - Thorin would prefer it be over before a third.

“Any news from the other side of the jebel?” he hollers, perhaps a bit too loud - that latest explosion has left a faint ringing in his ears, alongside yet more sand, no doubt.

“No, sir! Radio is down for the moment.”

“Well then, we’re just going to have to hope we’re not alone. Come on!”

If anyone asked him to explain how he’s gone from bending over maps and transcripts of intercepted enemy chatter, to spitting out sand and using the blunt end of his rifle as a crutch to climb up dune after dune, he’d have some difficulty finding the right words, no doubt.

But once there’s an opening, you’re supposed to take it, and all in all, chasing the Italians out of Cyrenaica has been nothing but a sweeping success so far.  _ Sweeping _ being the important word here - their forces are currently spread across the desert, with the brunt of the fighting happening alongside Via Balbia, but then there are smaller groups, like his own, hunting down those scattered across the dunes like ants.

But in this case, the ants seem to have left tank tracks behind.

“You really think the kiwis will get there in time?” Dwalin is back at his side, mirroring Thorin’s current predicament comprised of sweating like a bull and half tripping over shifting sand every other time,  _ like it’s so easy to forget it’s bloody everywhere. _

“They’d better! Last time I checked, none of ours were carrying anything heavier than a rifle with them.”

“Look at us, bringing fists to a tank fight,” Dwalin grunts.

“Hopefully not for much longer.”

Such is the nature of pursuing something huge and metal and capable of blowing you to smithereens - tanks are slow, and they have reasonable visual confirmation that this one’s damaged, too, but there’s always the option of that barrel turning your way and firing a round that leaves you  _ one with the sand _ for good, and nobody is too keen on risking that.

 

They finally manage to crawl their way up this particularly tricky dune, and Thorin fishes out his binoculars to look ahead, while Dwalin keeps an eye on the rest of their troop dealing with the difficult climb.

“Smoke,” Thorin announces, “one hill over.”

“You think the beast has finally broken down?”

“It’s a possibility. It’s terribly quiet, though. I didn’t hear a boom, did you?”

“Nah, no booms.”

What was that about jinxing things? One second, Thorin and Dwalin are redistributing orders, their company laboriously gathering on the top of the jebel,  _ very visibly _ of course, and then, there is, indeed, a  _ boom. _

Thorin’s world turns upside down as he is thrown forward and down, somersaulting face first into sand as the tank rocket hits seemingly right next to him. He has no hopes of controlling his fall, rolling down the hill, fast and painful, the sand like a thousand needles jabbing into his face.

He scrambles to his feet as fast as he can, only to realize he is decidedly rifle-less. The looming, monstrous shadow of the tank is climbing overhill ahead, and approaching fast, turning its barrel to stare straight into his face...

“ _ RUN! _ ”

That is fortunately enough to cut through the continuous ringing in his ears, and jolt him out of his reverie - he dives to the side, where he thinks he catches the vague outlines of a body and, hopefully, a weapon, all the while attempting to make sense of his surroundings, his men, his life expectancy.

“Fall back!” he roars, “scatter, circle it!”

The second explosion lands far behind him, sending a geyser of sand spouting high in the air - fortunate for him, but it’s where the majority of his men must be. Gunshots whizzing overhead, Thorin ducks, plunges forward, emerges victorious with a dead man’s gun in his hand, and finally has the time to quickly assess the situation.

The enemy troops are pouring over the dunes into the little valley that the tank seems to have selected for their final showdown, and his own company remains scattered all over the place - this might be to their advantage, if he only manages to convince them not to blindly run for their lives.

“Dwalin!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, no visual on his lieutenant, but a hope nevertheless, “attack! Attack! Push them, surround them!”

Hearing his order repeated, from somewhere to his right, is like heavenly music to his ears, even though it is followed by a very fond: “There’s a fucking  _ tank _ in the way, though!”

“I’m aware of the tank! Find me, cover me!”

There’s heroic, and then there’s just plain suicidal, and nobody is allowed to ask Thorin to tell the difference. No soldier thinks in those terms when they’re in the middle of battle, no - they are only capable of thinking as far as the trigger of their weapon, and their immediate surroundings, and somehow succeeding at combining both to survive. Which is why right now, Thorin’s tunnel vision suggests  _ utter mayhem - good. Person in tank - bad. No driver, no tank. Get on it. _ And he’s nothing if not an opportunist.

The monster is moving slow now, not equipped for prolonged retreat through a sea of sand - it is one of the lighter Italian tankettes, and seems to have some trouble making the quick turns and nimble advances it is known for.. It  _ has _ sustained some damage after all, that much is obvious from afar, and their saving grace is the destroyed machine gun - they’d all be dead, otherwise.

There is absolutely no cover, and Thorin knows it’s only a matter of time before somebody singles him out, shoots him in the back - with grit teeth, he pushes forth, shooting at anything that moves, but hoping intensely that Dwalin gets the hint and taunts the brunt of the fighting away from him. He thinks he can hear him shouting already,  _ have you lost your mind?!, _ but it might as well be his eardrums blown out by the third explosion, shaking the ground beneath his feet. 

He purposefully doesn’t look where it landed. The time to count their casualties will come later.

“Colonel! Boss!  _ Durin! _ ”

It’s difficult to concentrate for longer than a second in the flurry of gunfire, and he’s definitely risking getting shot just standing still and searching for the source of the shouting, but fortunately, he sees the man soon, tripping over his own feet running to him, provided cover by a small group of other soldiers. Doesn’t look like much of a chance, but Thorin will take anything.

“Nori?! Jesus Christ, are you alright?”

“Most of the blood isn’t mine. You planning on taking that down?”

“I’m - keep moving! Well, hopefully,” Thorin huffs, the bunch of them finding temporary rest behind a smaller mound of sand. “What other chance do we have? I don’t really see the Australians coming to help us any time soon, do you?”

“That I don’t,” his Corporal grins, “so what say you I make it a bit easier? Get a grenade or five under its belly, hopefully cripple it long enough to take out that poor sod inside?”

“But for that you’d have to get up close, far too close to... And you’re already on your way. Bloody hell.”

There’s heroic, and then there’s suicidal, and then there’s a special bracket reserved for men like Nori - those who are shown an opportunity to blow things up, and they actually get  _ excited. _

“Follow him!” Thorin roars at the surrounding soldiers, “cover fire!  _ Dwalin! _ ”

There is something to be said about commanding a battle directly from the field, rather than staring at makeshift flags on a map somewhere safe - later on, Thorin will have somewhat forgotten what happened, due to the immense amounts of adrenaline coursing through his veins the entire time, and it is perhaps for the best, come to think of it. All he knows is, the second he hears Nori’s half frantic, half elated  _ Fire in the hole!, _ things take a turn for the insane.

The actual explosion itself is scattered at best, and there’s no telling if any of the grenades actually made it  _ underneath _ the tank, but it doesn’t half matter - commotion is created, and there is no more time to waste. Thorin’s feet carry him on their own, the throbbing in his leg where his injury has been convalescing ever since France nothing but a faint reminder, because all he can think about is the distance between himself and the hoard of metal. The latch will most likely be jammed from the inside, the driver equipped with a gun of his own, the metal itself searing hot from the desert sun...

All of those are passing thoughts, because one second, Thorin is falling on his knees every other step trying to reach it, and the other, he is atop the hatch, his eyes briefly meeting with another pair as it flies open... The man is shouting something in Italian at him, and when he makes out the words for  _ blow, _ and  _ away, _ it’s already too late - there’s a second of overwhelming, deafening silence, and then it does, indeed,  _ blow. _

It’s nothing serious, not the entire chassis coming apart or anything dramatic like that, but it  _ is _ enough to catapult Thorin to the side, hitting the ground  _ far too close _ to the wheels of the beast, completely deaf for a blissful several seconds, so disoriented that he immediately drops to his knee the second he attempts to get up.

The hum in his head transforms into shouting, but there is an unmistakable victorious tinge to it now - there is someone running to his side, supporting him as he finally manages to make sense of his surroundings. The tank seems to be dead now, as is its driver, his limp body still stuck in the hatch, and Thorin looks from that grisly image to that of his men, most of which are miraculously still  _ there, _ still alive, subduing the enemies all over the dune. Someone is cheering, even.

“You crazy son of a bitch!”

That is Dwalin, limping over to him as fast as possible, and for some inexplicable reason, Thorin feels the need to smile.

“What are you grinning about?! Could have gotten yerself killed!”

“Same goes to you. How many have we lost?”

He leans on the side of the tank, entirely too hot, scorched by the sun, but it doesn’t really matter.

“A lot,” Dwalin shakes his head, “less than them, though.”

“That’s good, then. Nori...?”

“Oh, over there, very enthusiastic about keeping the prisoners in line. He’s tougher than an ox, that lad.”

“Right. Remind me to give him a medal when all of this is said and done.”

“Yeah, Mamma Mia. Oh, and look who arrives fashionably late to steal the show.”

The Australians’ jeeps ascend the jebel and approach them in a swirl of red dust, and Thorin groans, crossing his arms, not willing to take one step to welcome them.

“Make sure we have some sort of a tally on the prisoners,” he orders Dwalin, though he’d much prefer having him by his side now. “Send someone who  _ isn’t _ half dying to scout around, see if anyone’s escaped. I’ll deal with... that.”

_ That _ gets out of his jeep fashionably far from Thorin, only to make a show of himself mercifully ordering his men to help Thorin’s, all of them pristine clean and fresh, so much so that it’s sickening to be honest. Absentmindedly, Thorin attempts to straighten out his torn and bloodied jacket, but he doesn’t feel like extending Thranduil Oropherion the honor of greeting him with anything else beyond a slouch and a lazy nod.

“Well, now. Quite a show you’ve put up.”

“Could have had a starring role if you deigned to show up in time,” Thorin retorts, shielding his eyes against the sharp afternoon sun.

“Apologies for the delay,” Thranduil shrugs, “Via Balbia is almost clean now, but we ran into a retreating squadron of our own. You seem to have managed just fine without our help.”

“We were fucking  _ lucky _ that tank was half destroyed already, and you know it,” Thorin hisses, “it could have been two tanks, or five, and they would have stomped us to the ground. It was  _ your job _ to make an accurate account of the enemy troops in the area. It was  _ you _ who was supposed to provide the firepower to take this thing down. Nevermind that I captured twice the people I lost,  _ you’re _ the one who’s going to get all the credit again. Don’t bother.”

There is a hint of something bitter in that blase, spotless expression of his, but Thranduil doesn’t let him get a single peek at it, offering a bitter smirk instead.

“Are you forgetting Combe Force is a team effort? There is no need for petty squabbles.”

“Says the man who keeps a tally of each enemy captured.”

“Are you quite finished? Gather your little band of heroes, we must return to home base now.”

“We’re wrapping up early?” Thorin cocks an eyebrow.   
“We’re wrapping up, period,” Thranduil sighs, “Churchill has ordered the pursuit be halted.”

“What, already?!”

“And how exactly do you suggest we continue?” Oropherion scoffs, “half our vehicles have been swallowed by the desert. We are exerting just as much manpower keeping the prisoners, as we are chasing the rest, and we are, sadly, tragically unequipped to deal with the heat still. It’s over. Chin up, we’ve won this battle.”

 

It’s over. They ride back to Cyrenaica slowly, laboriously -  _ victoriously, _ though it feels anything but. Along the way, they are reunited with the rest of Combe Force, and the tally of prisoners, both human and tank, grows and grows. This is a good thing, he knows, but he still can’t shake the feeling of certain... displeasure, like a bitter taste on his tongue.

_ The unpleasant realities of war, as you have aptly named this burden we all share,  _ writes Bilbo Baggins,  _ now include my cousin’s husband going off to war, alongside a good handful of other men from Oakenclough and the surrounding villages. At first, I was worried, timid even, talking about all of it to the boys, but they seem to have a very clear grasp of the situation, what with their Uncle off saving the world somewhere. _

_ In their minds, it is the only right thing to do - pick up a rifle, go to the front lines, claw your way to a victory after victory. They see it in such colors, let me tell you. I prefer not to think on it too often, which is perhaps selfish of me, but I do confess to pondering on the immediate realities of all of this, were they ever to reach me.  _

_ Did I ever tell you there is an old hunting rifle stored in the attic? I don’t think it belonged to my father, perhaps one of our Uncles stored it here, but I saw it the other days when searching for something, and it’s been nagging at me ever since, the mere existence of it. Would I be able to pick it up, much less fire it, if the need arose? They tell you to arm yourself, to stay alert, ‘The Home Guard is all of us, protecting our homes’, but I don’t know - it seems so surreal. _

_ I suppose you must have taken many lives - of course, they are taken every day on the front, thousands dying. I’m not entirely sure where this course of thinking is supposed to lead me, but I fear it certainly isn’t to a point where I manage to provide you with something actually worth reading, and I apologize for that. _

_ Do tell me more about sand. Is it like English sand, all greyish and often cold? I remember going to the sea once or twice as a child, and not half enjoying the outing... _

 

Two days later, it begins - he argues against it, several other argue against it, but there’s no swaying the leadership, it seems. Cyrenaica is declared won, and the situation in Greece more important at the moment, and troops begin relocating. Thorin is given a choice - either stay in Italy and oversee as a measly handful of troops attempts to hold an entire colony, or head to Greece where, according to the powers that be, the real fight is.

“They are not done with this place, I’m telling you,” he complains to Dwalin, as they watch the commotion in the yard of their fort, half of its artillery preparing to leave. “They can see us retreating miles off, and they  _ will _ come back to reclaim it.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing here. I’m just saying, Greece - less sand, maybe. Hopefully?”

“We’re staying,” Thorin sighs.

“Whatever you say. Why are  _ the Australians _ staying, though?”

Across the yard, they see Colonel Oropherion surrounded by his men, currently in the middle of this or that lively debate - which doesn’t stop him from shooting a blase look or two Thorin’s way.

“Can’t say. It’s only the 7th Armored Brigade-”

“ _ His _ unit.”

“Yes. And a couple others. Probably didn’t want to leave the entirety of the colony for the British only, whatever that means. It isn’t exactly as if we’re getting a whole lot of advantages out of this either way.”

 

Another week later, he is proven right in all his premonitions, and all his fears. They come from the west, and in the first sunset, there doesn’t appear to be much of them, that’s what the scouts say, but Thorin knows better. Has known better all this time, and knows that what is ahead of them, some might call a fight already lost.

When they confirm that it is Rommel heading the charge, he is momentarily transported back to dreary France, planes screeching overhead, an entire bay going up in flames. He sends out his last letters the very day they begin seeing the smoke and the black spots of the approaching enemy on the horizon, like a persistent darkness rolling over the dunes, like a sickness claiming the sand, closer and closer - and then, there is nothing left to do but make account of what little manpower they have left, and strategize for the best outcome.

Which, in this case, might well include holding out long enough to see the next sunrise.

 

-

 

Spring this year seems to have gotten the news about the general mood in England, and it troubles them with a lot of rain, most of all - the warmth and the growth is welcome and appreciated, but other than that, nobody is in any sort of celebratory mood. Like every other year, Bilbo’s neighbor Master Gamgee helps him prepare the garden, make sure everything is ready to sprout, and Bilbo discretely times it so that their walk through the village takes them by Primula’s house as well, while she’s at school, and they help around the house a little bit.

Bilbo has offered her several times to come stay with them whenever she wants, but rarely does she take him up on the offer. No, she prefers solitude to what she calls ‘needless chatter’, and the sudden change worries Bilbo to no end, as does the image of her scurrying around that empty house all on her lonesome, attempting not to think about her husband.

And so, whenever he can, he helps her out like this, sending Fili and Kili to school with a basket of freshly baked goods to give her, or indeed, making sure Hamfast Gamgee takes one quick look at her sprouting tomatoes.

“It is a terrifying prospect, a household without a man to provide for it,” Aunt Lobelia decides to share her wisdom at the one inevitable social gathering that Bilbo and her always share, which is the Easter lunch with the family. “Of course, there are no children in hers just yet, but still, leaving such a young thing alone... Terrible, terrible.”

As far as Bilbo knows, she hasn’t done a single thing to help Primula out ever since Drogo left, and so he simply glares, wondering how long she expects to go on.

“I don’t know what I would do with myself, if they took my Otho away from me,” Lobelia continues to look appropriately miserable, just in case anyone else is eavesdropping on their conversation, and might want to draw their own conclusions about her sincerity. “This war has taken such a toll on us already. Terrible, terrible times.”

“What  _ toll _ , pray tell?” Bilbo surprises himself with how quickly his patience expires these days, “your son isn’t old enough to be conscripted, bless him, and your husband has that handy doctor’s stamp confirming... whatever the reason is that he gets to stay at home. You are  _ lucky, _ Lobelia, unlike many of those around you.”

“Lucky, pch!” she makes it sound like a curse word, “none of us are  _ lucky _ in this world of constant terror!”

“Oh please, you don’t know the first thing about  _ constant terror _ ! Or was your trip to Norfolk last week actually a trip to the front? How are the trenches? Still wet?”

“You have the sickest sense of humor, Bilbo Baggins!” she accuses him, cheeks puffed and red, and he watches with some satisfaction as she marches off, no doubt to complain to the nearest gathering of likeminded housewives.

“Bilbo, Bilbo!”

That’s his own boys, hurrying to him, eyes large and something on their minds, teetering on the edge of being blurted out.

“What, what is it?”

“Fatty says that he came back!” Fili exclaims.

“Who came back now?”

“The soldier!”

“Which soldier is that?”

“Fatty has a cousin over in Catterall, and they sent him to war some time ago, and then he came back! He’s back now, with his family!”

“When is Uncle Thorin coming back?” adds Kili, a tad too insistently.

“Oh, I - are you sure he came back?” Bilbo looks around a tad helplessly, for someone who might actually be familiar with the situation enough to support him.

“He got shot, Fatty says, and he came home to get better,” Fili explains somewhat frantically, “but they’re not giving him back, he says! They’re gonna keep him at home.”

“Oh, well, you see, the way that works is, uhh... Exactly that,” Bilbo sighs.

“Exactly what?”

Two equally excited pairs of eyes are gleaming up at him, and sometimes, it’s as if they haven’t aged a day since they came here.

“He got injured. Sometimes they send soldiers home to convalesce - get better. You don’t want your Uncle to get injured, though, do you?”

“Well, no,” Fili sighs, “but maybe he could get only a little bit injured-”

“ _ A little bit injured,  _ honestly!”

“But  _ then! _ He could pretend it’s much more serious and stay here, with us!”

Bilbo is somewhat relieved to finally realize that they’re only half serious about this, and ruffles their hair, one by one.

“Well then, why don’t you write your Uncle all about it in your next letter.  _ Dear Uncle, if you could please get just a tiny bit injured! _ I’m sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment immensely!”

They’re laughing by the end of all that, thank the heavens, and Bilbo is yet again reminded - somehow, even with his utter lack of anything resembling parenting skills, he manages to get by with them, probably on sheer luck alone. Perhaps he should write a book about that.

It wouldn't be Easter at Lobelia's house without a little tension, Bilbo decides eventually - but his patience runs a little thinner these days, and when she and her flock of the aforementioned housewives begin a heartfelt litany for all the sons and husbands they've sent off so far, Bilbo decides he's had enough, and so has Primula.

The weather miraculously agrees with them, no storm clouds on the horizon this time, and they walk the length of the village to her house, finding common, non-awkward ground for once, complaining about their relatives, what else.

"And your Colonel? How is he?"

Bilbo looks from her to the boys far ahead, Primula's dog overseeing them like a mother hen, and he sighs, half nerves, half exasperation. When has their life become so wrapped up in all this misery?

"We don't have to talk about that - him."

"Oh, please," she dismisses him, "there is no avoiding the general topic. All of us know someone in the war at this point. I think I'd just like to - I suspect he's relatively safe where he is?"

Oh. Bilbo tries his best to recall the contents of Thorin's latest letter, and they elude him perfectly, even though he's read it several times over, just like the rest.

"I... think so, yes. All the way in Africa at this point. Some business with the Italians, from what I understand. He complains about sand a lot."

"Sand?"

"It's true. Apparently it gets  _ everywhere _ ."

"Well, we are not a nation used to copious quantities of the thing, are we," she chuckles, "Drogo has some relatives by the sea. He doesn't recall those parts of his childhood too fondly."

That inevitable heavy silence descends back on their shoulders again, and they suddenly become incapable of looking each other in the eye, inspecting the scenery too intently instead. Bilbo intently wishes he were better at this, at saying the right thing, at offering comfort, but he's probably spent too much time alone, or something - the correct words elude him.

"I'm sure he's... well. Going to be alright. He did always know how to hold his own," he tries awkwardly, and her smile doesn't have a smidgen of warmth to it, but it is a smile.

"When it comes to outmaneuvering someone in an argument, yes. I don't think he's ever held a gun in his life."

"Perhaps the Army has other uses for people like him! Thorin - the Colonel always complains that the bureaucracy is a complete chaos, and I can definitely see Drogo picking up a pencil instead of a gun, and organizing things instead of, of shooting... them... Sorry. I'm babbling."

"You are," she grins, "it's endearing. Thank you."

"...You're welcome," he sighs, "for whatever it is that I did."

"You cheered me up!" she laughs, and her hand briefly finds his, squeezing, like they're children still, running from this or that imagined danger. "It's what you do best."

"Oh," Bilbo peeps, "well then. I'm glad."

_ Dear Master Baggins _

_ there are a lot of things they neglect to tell you about killing someone - particularly that when the choice is your life over someone else's, people often turn into the mouth of their gun, the pair of their eyes, the color of their uniform. At some point, you forbid yourself from thinking of them in any other way, lest the realization saps you of any and all willpower you ever had. _

_ Forgive me for this terribly depressing beginning, but I'm afraid the rest of the letter will not be any better. I mentioned nothing of this to the boys, but the situation here has escalated significantly - I am now sat in a swiftly emptying fortress, and while our armies claim victory over this particular prefecture, they prove themselves to be very shortsighted yet again, when it comes to predicting the future. _

_ I voiced my concerns several times - that this place is indefensible if they send our best troops away, with no immediate way of coming to our aid, that the decision to do so was hasty at best, the victory called prematurely - but try arguing with Churchill and the lot, I dare you. _

_ I cannot sufficiently predict what the following days have in store for me - it has already been confirmed that the Axis powers are on the move, that it is exactly as I'd predicted. We've left this place indefensible, vulnerable, made it seem like we do not care if we lose it again, immediately after acquiring it, and they know. _

_ The battle begins tomorrow, or perhaps even tonight, if they are bold enough, and I can't quite say what has urged me to write you this honestly, when I'd much rather spare you the miserable mood we all share here. Alas, here I am. I have absolutely no idea when I'll be able to write again, or if your letters will have a way of reaching me now - all I can promise is to think of you, all of you, and fight all the better for it. All the hope I have left lies stored in the image of my boys I carry with me wherever I go, and the handful of pressed flowers in the tin can in my breast pocket, conjuring, if imperfectly, an image of you as well. _

_ Faithfully yours, and farewell _

_ Lt Col Thorin Durin _

The thin sheet of paper shakes in his hand, and his eyes dart over the hasty handwriting time and time again, searching for any possible detail that would make him feel better, that would disprove what the Colonel was trying to tell him.  _ It is too early for farewells, dammit, we've never even met properly. _

It is all but habit at this point, for Kili to wander into the living room at odd hours of the night, but he still manages to startle Bilbo. After a moment of confusion, he sets the letter aside and hurries to the boy’s aid - still half asleep, Kili waddles around and asks for a cup of milk, and Bilbo knows he must shoo him up the stairs before he’s stuck sleeping curled up in the armchair by the fireplace again, because Bilbo is simply incapable of carrying him to his bed.

“Uncle,” Kili mumbles, circling the living room like this is his first time there, “Uncle Thorin?”

“Uncle Thorin isn’t here, darling, you know that,” Bilbo sighs, “come now, bed is calling. Go on.”

“Uncle Thorin,” Kili is currently living in his own little world, “where is he? When is he coming back?”

“I don’t - soon,” Bilbo opts for a white lie instead of arguing with a half asleep child, “he’ll be back soon. And he would be very cross to see you out of bed at this ungodly hour.”

“And he won’t get hurt?” Kili asks, already letting himself be steered towards the staircase, and Bilbo’s first thought is,  _ my lord, what an exceptionally chatty time for that boy tonight, _ and the second one is,  _ how will I ever really know? _

“I’m sure he’ll be perfectly fine,” he declares at last, “he can hold his own.”

_ I cannot sufficiently predict what the following days have in store for me... _   
Well, for Bilbo, it seems, they will be full of pretending that  _ oh come now, it hasn’t been  _ that  _ long since the last letter, I’m sure it’s just around the corner. _

Unpleasant realities of war, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, well, here we are! Thorin blindly charging at a tank kind of reminded me of him going one-on-one with Azog in the first movie, it felt very fitting :D And I went back and changed a couple of things so that Thranduil and his men are now Australian. Just imagine him with the accent! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this update! I think I'm going to go back and start adding little footnotes to each chapter, explaining all the names and titles and places and stuff, might be helpful. Let me know what you think, your feedback is, as always, highly appreciated! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Western Desert Campaign isn't as much of a success as anticipated - as predicted, the Axis powers saw their opening in the hasty regrouping of forces after the Allies' successful capture of Cyrenaica, and have since pushed their combined armies all the way to Tobruk. Thorin is stuck in hell with no means of keeping up with his correspondence, his hands tied as to improving the situation, for both himself and his men.  
> Meanwhile back home, Bilbo and the boys struggle with the excruciatingly long period of silence from overseas, and the direct results of the country being in war begin to show some lasting effects even in as peaceful a corner of the world as Oakenclough undoubtedly is.

_“...Needless to say, this summer will be hard for everyone. So if you're thinking it might be a good idea to hoard whatever you can get your hands on, and whatever grows in your garden, well then, folks, we can't exactly advise you against it, but we do implore you to think of thy neighbor, as it were. We're all in this together, and if you have an extra basket of apples lying around, or your carrots have been growing especially strong this year, do consider sharing with the people around you - kindness and food both are in short supply right now. But for now, to take your minds off the dread of it all, we leave you with a song..."_

Bilbo rolls his eyes at the peppy tune that follows, the coughing of the radio carrying through the open window from the living room all the way outside, as it struggles to catch any sort of signal here in the middle of nowhere. The utter futility of it, he ponders, hanging laundry slowly, methodically - attempting to bring cheer where there is none, trying to make people forget that the war is going on at all, like the rations are just a particularly frustrating game of cards, like _sharing with thy neighbor_ will solve anything. He understands that living in misery isn't exactly productive either, and he'd be the first one to defend their cozy quiet corner of the world to death, but at some point, there's just no helping it.

At some point, one is left wondering if the letters have stopped arriving because the world is at such an uproar right now, or because there is no one to write them anymore.

It's been over two months now, nine long weeks of no response whatsoever from the soldier, and he's had trouble both with convincing the boys not to jump to the worst of conclusions, and bolstering his own dwindling hope. They've been writing what they've taken to calling 'letters in advance', because Bilbo has managed to convince them that it's no use sending anything to the address their Uncle had provided them with ages ago - as to why he's moved on from there, and hasn't been responding lately, Bilbo has to come up with some particularly crafty, and not at all bulletproof, excuses, every time it comes up.

"If he died," Fili asked him out of the blue just the other day, "do you think they'd let us know? Or would we have to wait until after the war?"

Bilbo had stared at him, having almost dropped his armful of books, and found himself - not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, considering how quickly both boys have been growing, and becoming more proficient at surprising him at every turn - completely at a loss for words.

Fortunately, he is reminded when he first hears the excited chatter and laughter coming from over the hill, Fili and Kili have discovered a lot of ways to entertain themselves. If he understands the dynamic correctly, Fili has appointed himself the leader of a group of boys from his school, and ever since the weather became the teensiest bit agreeable, they've been attempting to conquer more and more of the untrodden wilderness outside Oakenclough - or what passes for wilderness in these parts, so mostly patches of forest, and the occasional hill tall enough to make you break a sweat when you climb it at least. 'The Oakenclough Battalion', they're calling themselves, and Bilbo doesn't pretend to know exactly what they do out there in the nature, but they are usually protected by a handful of dogs accompanying them out of sheer curiosity, and they come home with their makeshift weapons made of sticks, muddied and appropriately tired, hair tousled by the wind and cheeks gleaming, telling tales of building tree houses and fishing for trout in the spring that runs throughout the village and beyond, and Fili spends his evenings charting a map of the area, while Kili always falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow... All in all, Bilbo should be glad it is this way, after all. He's providing enough. Might be providing a little less poppyseed cakes and apple pies ever since sugar has been rationed as well, but they'll make do. They'll make do.

He just can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't be the one watching all this, or that he should at least be able to share all of it, their progress and their reasons for laughter, even their ridiculous excuses to stay up a bit longer, with their actual family.

"Would you boys like some tea before you run off again?" he asks as they crowd his small garden, "there are biscuits to go with it, I believe."

The agreement is unanimous and rather strong, and he barely manages to shout after them to wash their hands, and they're already hurrying inside like a herd of eager puppies.

The Bolger boy is there, as well as the postman’s twins, and that red-haired girl from the orphanage in Calder Vale, following her big sister wherever she goes, including decidedly _not_ right back home after school... Even Lobelia’s youngest is here, waddling after everyone with ruddy cheeks and sticky hands, perhaps simply glad to be included.

Before the boys came here, Bilbo knew all the village children as a sort of single snotty entity, always loud and always too demanding, and now... He wouldn’t go so far as to pretend he’s taken a particular liking to them, but he can’t deny the excitement they bring with them, so very needed and appreciated in these trying...

“ _Folks, I’m afraid we have to interrupt your broadcast again with some more grim news._ ”

...Times. Dammit.

“Fili, switch off the radio for me, would you?” Bilbo calls, a tad anxious now, limping back inside, the distance between the backyard and the living room suddenly entirely too great.

“ _We are just now receiving news from overseas, where our brave troops have been facing off the enemy in the heart of the Western Desert-_ ”

That is what you _get_ for being utterly reckless like that, and forgetting that the BBC now do what they like to call ‘ _quick updates_ ’, which are, in his own opinion, just a load of scaremongering malarkey - quite the contrast to the otherwise cheerful tone of their broadcasts, if you ask him. _Keeping the people informed_ can go to hell, as far as he’s concerned, especially where there are children present, who definitely should _not_ be listening to someone describing the casualties of this or that battle in breathtaking detail.

“- _and after the victory in Cyrenaica, things seemed to be looking up for our boys, but the Germans delivered a swift counterattack. Those who hadn’t left for Greece, have been on a steady retreat for the past couple of weeks, and we are led to believe that they are now attempting to hold the besieged city of Tobruk, the last bastion of the Allied forces stopping the Axis Powers from retaking the entirety of the African continent-_ ”

“Fili, switch it off,” Bilbo pleads quietly, but it’s no use - chills dance up his spine at the sight of the children all huddled in his tiny kitchen, looks of intense concentration in their faces as they listen to the account of the war like it’s a particularly grimy bedtime story. Is this what they have come to? Is war going to be just another regular part of their lives now?

"Alright, come on, everyone," Fili proclaims sternly, "we've got work to do."

Bilbo regards with some surprise as his ragtag "battalion" all finish their tea and biscuits obediently, but what's perhaps even more breathtaking, is the determination in Fili's face, the stormy expression with which he listened to the broadcast and subsequently shut it off, but only after everything important had been said - Bilbo has never actually met his Uncle in person, but he feels confident in guessing that some of that brave soldier can now be seen in his nephew's eyes.

"And what kind of work is that, exactly?" he asks, and Fili only waves at him almost dismissively, in the process of herding everyone upstairs to his and Kili's room.

"Fortifications," he declares, "I'll show you later."

"Oh, fortifications, I see. Shall I whip up dinner for eight for when you're done with that, then?"

"If you want," Fili offers a grin, before disappearing as well.

"Fortifications," Bilbo shakes his head, and sets about tidying up after them - he doesn't think he's ever getting used to just how much mess children are capable of producing on a daily basis, even after living with them for... good god, years now.

The figure of their Uncle, the ghost of him, is a constant presence on the back of his mind, and sometimes the prospect of getting to meet him one day, having to catch him up with everything the boys will have gone through, the distinct guilt of I know _it should have been you_ , terrifies him.

 _They seem to be in the process of converting seemingly the entire village into some sort of makeshift bunker_ , he writes later that night, a paper with no address, _but don't ask me how. I think it has to do with treehouses, and that small cave they discovered the other day. There should be a drawing of it somewhere that Kili did._

 _In all my naivete_ , Bilbo scribbles, then proceeds to chew on the back of his pen for a good five minutes, incapable of forcing the sentence to continue. I _thought for the longest time that I was there to protect them from everything even vaguely reminding them of war, but I realize now that it is not only impossible, but also rather unwise. You might laugh, but I honestly always believed that knowing their Uncle has been fighting in it, was as much as they needed to hear on the topic, and certainly didn't deserve a whole lot of reminding otherwise._

_But here I am, finding myself struggling to answer their increasingly clever and inquisitive questions, and wondering why I should even be trying so hard to keep things from them. Already, the war permeates every waking second of our lives, and I would be a fool not to expect them to be affected by it. So then, am I asking your permission? As foolish as that sounds? Sometimes I feel so terribly guilt-ridden when I..._

Each word seemingly takes a lifetime to commit to paper, and he leaves that particular sentence unfinished, dangling its threatening honesty before his eyes. He's gone so long without a proper response to his musings, that he can now hardly imagine how the soldier might react - if he even would. How many evenings has he spent sitting in this exact chair, laughing quietly over letter after letter, re-reading each a dozen times until it was committed to his memory word by word, imagining what it might be like, getting to converse with the Colonel eye to eye? How many more evenings is he doomed to spend repeating the same?

He thinks of his cousin sitting at home alone as well, waiting on a letter from her absent husband - those, at least, come frequently enough, Drogo not even having left the country, and though their respective situations are not to be compared, Bilbo can’t help but do exactly that. For Prim’s sake, he hopes that it will remain that way, Drogo secreting away a moment to write her almost every day, and at the same time, he’s worried she will end up exactly like him, holding out hope for something that might never arrive again, with no means of finding out more.

Perhaps he will say that, the next time he sees her, that he frequently spends time comparing her husband to the image of a soldier he’s never met that he holds in his mind, and it will give her enough cause to laugh again. _Perhaps you should warn the Colonel first, if you plan on acting like you two are married, Bilbo..._

Perhaps he should stop entertaining silly ideas this instant, and concentrate on the correspondence he _does_ receive.

 

 _My dearest Bilbo,_ writes Gandalf, or at least someone with a typewriter willing enough to transcribe what he dictates, somewhere in the midst of war torn London, Bilbo imagines.

_I find it interesting that you didn’t think to mention your interest in the boys’ family when we met eye to eye - those were a precious few days of freedom I had, and I would have been perfectly happy to discuss everything I know with you. Which, I’m afraid, isn’t all that much - the family Durin, as you have correctly deduced, doesn’t exactly hail from somewhere traditionally British. They were once a sprawling clan of some nobility, but have since been reduced to the two boys you are housing, and their unfortunate Uncle._

_As to the passing of his sister, and the boys’ mother, I don’t feel half right discussing it without the Colonel’s knowledge. I understand your nagging need to find out more - you have always been a curious one - and it is about time the boys started asking questions of their own, but still, I implore you to exercise patience. I can assure you that whatever it is you imagine happened to cast such misfortune upon Thorin Durin’s family, it had nothing to do with the war at hand - and as it currently occupies the forefront of everyone’s minds, I think it is best to let the matter rest, until a more peaceful time at least. I’m sure the boys will understand as well._

_As for me, I am preparing to travel overseas as well - far away from where the Colonel’s troops are stationed, I’m afraid, but if I do hear even a sliver of information about him, I promise to let you all know._

_Until then, I remain sincerely yours_

 

_Gandalf M. Grey_

 

Bilbo folds the letter and puts it away with distinct displeasure - leave it to Gandalf to make him feel idiotic for even asking. But the _nagging need,_ as his friend described it, to find out more, remains - the boys have both been feeling less reluctant to share tidbits about their family before they came here, before the war, and Bilbo has in turn discovered that there isn’t much to tell. Not for the lack of information, he senses, but for the lack of the children’s knowledge, of course - a fact that Fili seems to be struggling with as well, as he has approached Bilbo multiple times, asking him to find out more, to ask his Uncle this and that, all of it planting a seed of, indeed, _nagging_ curiosity in Bilbo’s mind.

Asking the Colonel outright is certainly out of the question, unless Bilbo hopes to make a complete fool of himself, but that doesn’t mean that he will stop searching. Gandalf was only one of his sources, and judging by the tone of his letter, he has all but forgotten that Bilbo wasn’t always secluded away in the quiet hills of Oakenclough - no, before he returned here to cater to his sickly parents, Bilbo had been spending a considerate amount of time sitting around various libraries in preparation for his book, all of which might come in handy right now.

Fueled by newfound determination, he reaches for a fresh sheet of paper, only hesitating very shortly before addressing it to his precious alma mater - it’s been over a decade since he last set foot there, and yet, if anyone, any institution, is to aid him in his search, the Cambridge University Library will be the one.

 

-

 

“Did you mention reinforcements were on the way? Because I’d still like to get out of here alive, thank you.”

“Really? Because I still have half a mind to leave you behind-”

Their dialogue is cut short by another tremor, fine dust descending from the ceiling and settling on their helmets and shoulders. Thranduil casts a harrowed look to the uneven ceiling, while Thorin attempts to see ahead, even the ground itself feeling unsteady under his feet.

“You do realize _you_ got us into this mess,” he spits, “I lost god knows how many people just getting _close enough_ to this place, and I’m losing more every second we spend arguing, and not _walking_ \- Jesus!”

 _This_ explosion is stronger and closer than the ones before, and sends them staggering, barely managing to find the nearest surface to lean on, and keep on their feet.

“Yes, thank you for the cheerful summary of our plight so far,” Thranduil spits, clutching his side, blood now soaking the front of his shirt quite visibly, “now can we _please_ move on before this entire fortress buries us alive?”

“ _Alive_ might be an overstatement, in some cases,” Thorin groans, “how is your wound?”

“Still there, thank you very much. But I’m not planning on conveniently dying and making your escape that much easier, if that’s what you’re asking. Let’s move!”

If only Thorin might be allowed to sit back and think once more of the consequences that have led them here - but then again, maybe not, lest he decides to simply give up out of sheer frustration. He called it, or at least the beginning of it - the second the powers that be ordered the bulk of the armada out of the recaptured Cyrenaica, and away to Greece, the Axis saw a chance and seized it, striking without remorse, or any particular pause that would offer the measly remainder of the forces holding the province to prepare.

No, they were hit fast and hard, and it’s been a whirlwind of retreating and regrouping ever since. When they were pushed as far as Tobruk, things briefly seemed somewhat hopeful - they were finally allowed time, to sit back and reevaluate, the Germans’ attempts at besieging the city meeting with nothing but lukewarm acknowledgement. Tobruk withstood all attempts without so much as a scratch, but of course, _someone_ had to go and become _confident,_ and begin counterattacks wherever fancy struck them.

Months later, their efforts to advance their reach further inland have been meeting with failure after failure, culminating fabulously with the optimistically named Operation Battleaxe, which, had it succeeded, would have regained them almost all the ground they’d lost beforehand - and which, as it usually goes, has warped in the exact opposite direction.

“You know, just for future reference,” Thorin groans, the debris in their way causing both of them some trouble advancing, “getting purposefully captured to _strike from the inside_ isn’t heroic, it’s just bloody stupid. Especially when you neglect to mention your little _plan_ beforehand.”

“Oh, give it a rest. We’ve had this argument already.”

“Yes, because you just can’t help yourself, can you? Is idiotic recklessness just another requirement for a position in the Australian army, huh?”

“This coming from the man who saw it fit to charge at a tank.”

“That was ages ago and I didn’t exactly have a choice-”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t _you_ tell me to shut up, you jumped up little-”

“No, I mean, shut _the hell_ up,” Thranduil hisses, unceremoniously grabbing at Thorin’s arm and shoving him aside, his shoulder hitting the wall - he’s just about to recuperate from that and swing back with his fist at the ready, but then he hears it too, the footsteps.

The hallway stretches a little ways ahead before turning a sharp corner, the ancient stone carrying sound perfectly - which makes it somewhat impossible to discern just how much time they have before a fully armed patrol comes up around said corner, and find two enemy soldiers wielding a distinct _lack_ of firearms of their own.

“Now would be an excellent time for that diversion you mentioned,” Thranduil hisses, and Thorin waves at him to keep his mouth shut and follow him - their only choice is to tiptoe back the way they came from, and hope they manage to get their hands on some particularly sharp rocks _before_ the enemy finds them.

Such is the fate of ill-advised plans, and half botched rescue missions, where both parties are a tad reluctant to work together - Thranduil managed to lose most of his unit, himself included, to the combined German-Italian force holding this particular front, and Thorin has had to expedite far more resources than he’d like, trying to get him out of his own mess.

Unlike the Australian Colonel, who seems to thoroughly enjoy clutching to his half-baked ideas for as long as he can, even though they are crumbling before his eyes, Thorin would have liked a bit more preparation than _‘Alright, charge in at my command and hope for the best’._ His only hope right now is that _some_ of his people have managed _not to_ follow the Australians’ example and get themselves captured, and are now working on the aforementioned diversion, which might very well be their one ticket out of here.

The footsteps pass them, fortunately, tall shadows in the hallway, disappearing soon behind another corner, and they share a sigh of relief - which lasts about as long as it takes them to resume their push forward, and they encounter the sheer debilitating terror of a shout in commanding German coming from behind them, and the unmistakable click of several guns pointed right at them.

They have about a second to evaluate, come up with a dozen different ways they could die right now, should have been dead already, and decide - and luckily, they reach the same conclusion, wordlessly, lunging forward and around the corner that has caused them so much trouble already, bullets biting into ancient stone where they stood just a second ago.

"So I suppose the strategy is... running?" Oropherion complains.

"Better than any plan you came up with!" Thorin retorts.

It is a blind dash, as the layout of the fortress is entirely unfamiliar to him - the only direction they need to go in, is forward and _out_. His head is pounding, his ribs protesting the several tumbles he took to get to this blasted position, and if he had but a second to catch his breath, he'd spend it yelling at Thranduil for getting them into this mess in the first place, forcing Thorin to sacrifice his men navigating this blasted maze without a proper plan, without a proper exit strategy, and does he even really care about his own men? Cells upon cells with no inhabitants beyond rats, and no sign of the troops he came here with?

He will pay for this, but first they have to actually get out of here.

Fueled in equal parts by adrenaline and frustration, he bodily slams into the first enemy they encounter around one of the corners, barging into him with all of his weight, sparing no thought for the likelihood of his own demise, and instead channelling everything into the element of surprise. There are two more, but the one Thorin assaults has a rifle, relinquishing it rather easily when, quite literally, pressed, and soon, all three of the soldiers lie dead or dying.

"Well then," Thranduil comments.

"Move," Thorin snarls at him, wiping at his mouth, forcing his heart not to burst out of his chest.

It is machistic idiots like him that make this war so bloody difficult - no plan except for stealing the spotlight in any way imaginable, no concern except for themselves. Thorin himself has absolutely no idea where his men are - they got separated in an explosion that was, ironically, provided as cover by their own troops, and which tore through one entire part of the fortress like a hot knife through butter - but he has every intention of rescuing them the first chance he gets.

At least they have weapons now, and they get to utilize them soon enough, meeting with more resistance the closer they seem to get to the inner courtyard - that, Thorin can only discern from the flashes of their surroundings he briefly catches out the windows they pass, but the fact that they are not dead just yet, proves that the diversion is working, at least to some extent. Now, if only they manage to avoid yet another floor-shattering explosion, that would be just brilliant.

“Did you hear that?” Thranduil huffs, the two of them having found temporary cover in a room that must have served as some sort of command center, hastily abandoned tables overflowing with paperwork - had they more time, they might even find something crucial here, but no, of course, that would be too convenient.

“Hear what?”

“English.”

He’s right - there is some commotion down the corridor they came here through, shouted orders in their language for once, the stomping of several pairs of boots... Thorin halts Oropherion before he can make so much as a step, and it turns out he was right to do so - unintelligible voices are soon interspersed with gunfire.

“ _Fall back! Fall back!_ ”

“Perhaps we could lend a hand?” Thranduil offers sarcastically.

“I’m thinking,” Thorin retorts, and that’s when he sees it, sitting forgotten and half hidden under other paraphernalia on a desk nearby, like a godsend - one perfect, pristine, unused grenade. “Perhaps we can,” he grins, weighing it in his hand.

There never is room for particular finesse where explosives are involved - the men appearing around the corner are a mixed group of Thorin’s a handful of Thranduil’s, and their commanders usher them inside the room mere seconds before the enemy is in sight, upon which moment Thorin sends them his greetings. They have about three seconds of the Germans’ utter confusion to dash in, ears still ringing from the blast, and dispose of anyone still able to oppose them, hardly even stopping in their run.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

Dwalin is looking about as terrible as Thorin himself probably does, fine dust painting him ashen from head to toe, a single trickle of blood tracing a path in it down his forehead, but he’s gripping a gun, and he’s still alive, which is about everything that Thorin is allowed to wish for right now.

“Same to you! How goes it?”

“We managed to rescue a handful,” Dwalin jerks his head toward the Australian soldiers swarming around their Colonel, “but half my people are either down or still missing, and same goes for the Aussies. This place is a fucking maze!”

“Agreed,” Thorin huffs, “let’s aim for the exit for now, we’ll figure it out as we go. I don’t want us splitting up again, we’re flying blind and we don’t know when this place is going to blow.”

“An air raid would be helpful. I don’t suppose you thought to order one?” Oropherion chimes in, helpful as always.

“Perhaps I would have, if you’d thought to share your itinerary with me!”

 

Once they do succeed at getting out, it becomes obvious why they have been encountering fewer resistance - the diversion worked, and the might of the Germans’ troops here is focused on the handful of Thorin’s tanks causing trouble on the far end of the ridge. In theory, someone should be coming around to pick them up, but that escape plan hinges on Thorin’s people actually tearing through the enemy lines long enough to give them a window. As it is right now, they are stranded, on foot in the endless sea of sand, with the fortress behind them and a minefield ahead, and it’s only a matter of time before someone notices them.

“I say we make a run for it!” Thranduil speculates, someone already tending to his blood-soaked majesty, “if we go around that dune, we have a chance of reaching our people before someone reaches us!”  
“On foot? Are you insane?! Go ahead, if you want to get shot in the back!” Thorin has to shout to be louder than the cacophony of battle.

“Either way, we can’t stay in one place for too long,” Oropherion declares, “what are you suggesting?”

“Oi, you two!” Dwalin hollers, all protocol out the window, “how about we get ourselves a ride?!”

The handful of Volkswagens stand entirely abandoned not that far off at all, the Germans' backs more or less turned as they mobilize as quickly as possible - which also doesn't give them very long at all to get there and out. The number of weapons in their possession is laughable right now, but they do have enough to cause a little distraction of their own, Dwalin leading the charge at the enemy's miniscule flank, while Thorin in turn leads the Australians to the cars like a group of slightly dazed ducklings.

"Sir! Eyes on our people, up right!"

He doesn't know who calls it out, but he knows what he sees - familiar uniforms, stumbling into the sun, alive, hopefully armed, where he thought he wouldn't see anything anymore.

"Excellent! Keep the fire away from them, boys! Everybody to the cars, quick!"

He's experienced stronger explosions, closer ones as well, but this one shakes him not because he suffers the direct brunt of it, but because he gets to watch it, sees it engulf his men, the hope and relief still in their eyes as they are about to be reunited with the rest of their unit, turned to horror as they are slaughtered from behind, the boom of the grenade sending them to the ground, only to be replaced by the drill of gunfire echoing off the ancient stone walls of the fortress, catching them entirely unprepared, and thus indeed catching every single one of them.

All other noises are dulled for that one fraction of a second, and he has about that long, nothing but a meaningless sliver of time, to grit his teeth, dispose of the immediate pain and swallow the cry instinctively building in his throat, until the world moves on again, somebody shoving into his shoulder, snapping him back into action.

"We've got company! Let's go, come on!" he roars, an entirely automated response, tearing his eyes away from the people he'd meant to rescue, _not enough time, never enough time_ . "Get those cars moving, come on! We're leaving, Lieutenant, come on! _Dwalin!_ "

In his Lieutenant's eyes, he sees the same desperate fury that he is not letting himself feel right now, but they both need a good, sharp order sometimes to snap out of it - Dwalin shuts his eyes tight for a second, and then he's all there again, thank God.

Bullets whiz dangerously low above their heads as they make their daring, and incredibly messy, escape, all of them no doubt blessing the Germans' inability to lock their cars - Thorin holds onto the side of the vehicle, the bumpy ride rattling his very bones, the anger within him like a snarling beast threatening to snap its chain.

The outcome is obvious - by the time they reach their forces, one slow sloping angle of a ridge away, they are already in the midst of a chaotic retreat, vigorously being pushed back by the fort's defenses. Thorin and Thranduil agree for once, and don't even join the fighting, simply drive in the vague direction of safety, which is to say Tobruk. Fort Capuzzo is about a two days' ride away, and the first stop they make, the makeshift camp is already being packed up around them to leave as well - just one among many signs pointing to the real outcome of this campaign. The entirety of Beda Fomm is in disarray, and Thorin doesn't need the numbers read to him, doesn't even really need to reach their home base, to know that their losses have long since moved from the territory of _significant_ , and found their way into _crippling_.

To say that they have lost their footing in this area would be an understatement - Tobruk is holding by the skin of its teeth only because the force of the Axis is momentarily focused elsewhere, but they have lost so many people and equipment in their half-baked attempt at advancing that the status quo is bound to change very quickly, and most probably not in their favor.

All of these thoughts form themselves in Thorin’s mind one by one, reluctant and unwelcome, like bubbles popping in mud, and by the time they finally drive through the only preserved gate into the city, he’s had about enough.

He’s going to have to file a dozen death reports with no dog tags to return to anyone, and explain the entire mess to people who have been sitting on their arses in here the whole time, safely hidden away, and he hasn’t eaten in what feels like a week, and so, the second they all jump out of their jeeps and Thranduil Oropherion turns in his general direction with that infuriating holier-than-thou predisposition of his, Thorin doesn’t even attempt to resist the urge.

He lands his punch beautifully, sending the Australian Colonel to the ground in an almost artistic spin, then back on his feet soon, assisted by two other soldiers, pressing his hand over his bleeding nose - all in all, the most satisfying thing that’s happened to Thorin in a good long while.

“Care to join me for dinner?” he says to Dwalin, perfectly conversationally, and they stride away side by side, careful to hide their snickering well.

“Y’sure he’s not going to give you grief for that?” Dwalin worries nevertheless, and Thorin huffs his disapproval.

“Please. After what he pulled, he’ll be lucky I don’t make sure he’s sent back home with a dishonorable discharge. Prick.”

“Hmm. I’ll... write you a list of the boys we left in there.”

Thorin almost stops in his tracks, but Dwalin’s face, however rough and rugged, outright hostile to those who don’t know him, offers the much needed comfort.

“Thank you.”

If this were them on a different continent some years ago, at least one of them would add something along the lines of hopefully finishing all of this soon, but they both know better now - when the end is absolutely nowhere in sight, it’s much better not to mention it at all.

 

_My dearest boys,_

_how long has it been since I last saw you? Would I even recognize you, after all this time? Would you recognize me? The war warps all perception of night and day, all sense of the changing of seasons, as if erasing all notion of time itself. Every time I close my eyes to chase uneasy sleep, I long to wake up back in England, all of this having faded into nothing more than an unpleasant dream. Perhaps one day - the thought of it is truly what keeps me going. The thought of you._

_I will not be getting the opportunity to send this letter any time soon, nor do I mean to - its mood corresponds with mine right now, which is to say it is far too bleak to ever share with anyone but myself. But writing everything down, imagining I am telling all of this to you as you sit on this measly bed next to me, makes it all somewhat more bearable._

Next to him, a quiet fire crackles away in a half caved-in fireplace, and Thorin briefly considers tossing the letter in there, the pointlessness of it weighing on him quite heavily, but he simply rubs his forehead instead, closing his eyes for a moment, doing his best to conjure the image of his nephews as he remembers them - he had a picture of them, once, barely past infancy, with their parents still, but that, much like all but everything else, has been lost to the relentless void of war at some point.

_I hope that Bilbo treats you right - not that I would expect any less, having come to know him through our correspondence. Perhaps once all of this is over, if I survive, I will turn up at your doorstep and get to thank the man properly. Get to look into the face of a person selfless enough to relent his home to two strange children, out of nothing but the goodness of his heart, and confirm all my questions and opinions about him. Confirm what I already know, the last thought before I fall asleep every night - that he is the better option, that you have found your new home with him, in his cozy little house in the middle of nowhere, and that perhaps, it is better this way, me protecting you from afar, while he gets to_

His pen comes to a halt more or less on its own, and it is only the fleeting thought that it might very well be his last one, that stops him from hurling it against the nearest wall. No, he stores it safely in his breast pocket instead, and finds that much needed momentary satisfaction in crumpling up the sorry piece of paper, his fist still closed around it as he presses both his hands against his eyes, frustration soon giving way to just sadness.

He can see them clear as day, like the mirage a man dying of thirst sees last in the desert, their laughter as they dash across what he imagines must be lush hills surrounding Oakenclough, so grown up, so tall, with a man he is yet unable to put a face to, calling them to him, putting them to sleep every night, familiar with every single joy and insecurity of theirs, familiar with the entire people they have become since Thorin left them behind... He drives his fist to the frail table next to him, nothing but a feeble contraption of rotten wood, and hears a crack as it shakes and topples over.

"Hey, now, what did the furniture ever do to you?"

"Leave me be," Thorin demands hoarsely, but Dwalin merely arches one eyebrow, lounging in the door ever so nonchalantly.

"Can't. Looks like they've decided. Wavell was just sacked. Auchinleck is taking over, and Cunningham wants to see everyone. Something’s brewing."

"Yeah," Thorin exhales, no passion left within him to even dispute anything, "sure. Brilliant. Something’s always bloody brewing, isn’t it."

The letter, he crumples in his fist and leaves behind.

 

-

 

The only part of the house they are not allowed to go in is the attic, and Fili can't count the days he's spent staring longingly up the narrow wooden steps, where the latch awaits, blue paint peeling off old wood. Fred Bolger and him once went out in the garden and circled the house enough times to find the tiny window that they determined _must be_ a way into the land of mysteries, but where exactly would two eleven year old boys get their hands on a ladder? And when will Bilbo ever leave them alone in the house, what with his limp, and propensity for falling asleep in his armchair after lunch, but waking up at the slightest noise, like a tomcat hearing a mouse shuffle on the floorboards?

Those questions remain unanswered for now, as does the mystery of the attic, but Fili has promised himself he will find his way there one day.

For now, the house offers enough entertainment as it is, even though Fili has explored every inch of it over the time Kili and him have spent here - it is not a particularly big house, but Bilbo must have spent a long time filling it with all sorts of strange little trinkets, like parts of a story that Fili will never hear, and must uncover by himself. There are old hand-painted plates on the wall above the stove, easily a dozen of them, a collection of Bilbo's mother's, and Fili sometimes catches him taking them off one by one, ever so carefully, polishing them like they are the most precious treasure in the world, speaking to them like they can hear him, probably imagining he can talk to his mother again.

But Fili can hardly fault him for that, seeing as he spends rainy afternoons directing elaborate scenarios with his toy soldiers, the tallest one with the shiniest rifle and fanciest helmet playing the role of Uncle Thorin, leading his troops to a certain victory time and time again.

"Careful with those! You know they're fragile!"

Then, of course, there are the countless pressed flowers hiding among the sheets of the large book on the windowsill in the kitchen, weighed down by an old cast iron skillet and a handful of unused pots on top, and whenever Bilbo allows them to take a peek and select what they're going to send to Uncle next, he's always unreasonably worried they'll destroy it all, as if the almost translucent blooms and leaves aren't the most precious thing to them as well.

Of course now, all of that is only for looking at, as they don't have an address to send their letters to, but the pressed plants have become so synonymous with Uncle Thorin to the boys at this point, that they enjoy simply speculating, rearranging the blooms according to color so very carefully, or just making sure they're still there, waiting for the day they will finally be hidden among the folded sheets of yet another letter, soon to be on their way overseas.

"Kili, look," Fili captures his brother's attention, a somewhat difficult task, especially when Kili is in the middle of doodling, but his brother watches nevertheless, as Fili arranges the pressed circles of dandelion into a simple smile, eyes following the movements of his hands intently, a smile spreading on his face when he understands the finished product, hurrying to recreate it with his colored pencil.

"It seems to me like Kili won't always want to talk," Bilbo speculates sometimes, "but that's fine. If we can keep him smiling, he's going to be alright. You can help me with that, can't you?"

Fili doesn't really understand why Kili sometimes choosing to stay quiet is any sort of issue, but he does like making him smile, so he supposes it all works out. They still fall asleep in the same bed every night, _one day it won't be big enough for two boys_ , Bilbo always worries, and Fili can hear his brother calling for their Mum sometimes, a bad dream making him squirm in the sheets and thus stealing sleep away from Fili as well. At times like those, he does want their Mum back, because she always knew just what to say when they got scared at night - but they have Bilbo now, and he can't always make it up the stairs so well.

Fili sees him rubbing some sort of ointment into his knee some days, and he knows he had an illness when he was a child, has grown accustomed to handing him the cane even without being prompted a lot of the time, but still... It's perfectly clear to him that some people can't fight in the war like Uncle does, because they're unable to, but sometimes it looks like Bilbo has all this fight in him nevertheless, and nowhere to put it.

He sees it whenever that annoying Cousin Lobelia reappears, always trying to win Kili and him over with sweets and nice words, always quick to meet with Bilbo's strict refusal and stern words in return, a part of him that Fili never sees otherwise.

He sees it in Bilbo's face sometimes when he doesn't know Fili is in the room, late at night, listening to the radio bringing news from the front, his jaw clenched tight, a tension to his shoulders, like an anger, which he always ends up concealing so quickly when he notices Fili standing close by.

There might not be any real danger waiting for them immediately outside the door, but the war is with them every step of the way even then, impossible not to notice. So many kids have had to say goodbye to their fathers, and there are hardly any men between... well, barely past their teens and about Bilbo’s age left in Oakenclough and the surrounding villages. Some are allowed to stay because they help, Fili understands, like Fred Bolger’s Dad, whose farm feeds everyone, and the miller, too, and Mr Bell who runs the post office, because he’s apparently already an employee of the state, but still... The absence is far greater than the presence of those staying behind.

And none of their parents will let them listen to the news, but Fred’s Cousin writes letters back home from the front, and they can all imagine what it could look like, dark sweeping shadows of planes in the sky, the deafening roar of tanks as their metal wheels bite into meadow after meadow, leaving destruction in their wake. _The war will never come this far north,_ the adults always reassure them, but then they speak in hushed tones about ‘the need to be prepared’, and ‘the benefits of training more people to use guns’, and Mary and Betty from the foster home swear that they saw some rifles in the shed where the gardener keeps his shovels.

But if it ever comes, Fili thinks, they will have a place to go and hide, at least. They discovered the cavern last summer, Fred and him and the boys, when it was old lady Proudfoot’s birthday, and everyone was busy celebrating in the square, big tables brought outside and straining under the weight of homemade baked goods and lemonades, nobody to really keep an eye on them as they snuck off, each a cinnamon pastry in hand and a clear goal in mind.

Bilbo would never let him go that deep into the forest if he knew, and he certainly would never let him take Kili with, but they still went that day, a handful of them, and explored further than they ever had before, past the last road leading to the sawmill, up the rushing brook, a hike that turned more and more daunting the steeper the hill grew, but when they made it up there, it all became worth it.

It took them several more visits to dare climb down the jagged and scattered stones on the other side, down to the deep darkness they knew nothing about, so many times they simply turned around when Fred was brave enough to toss a pebble down there and they thought they might have heard a sound coming from the mouth of the cave... It was empty, in the end, and quite smelly, but they were too excited to care, and they’ve been coming back ever since.

Mary and Betty have even secured a couple of old chairs and a wonky table from the foster home attic, and bit by bit, they have all been bringing anything that they could spare, anything that their parents (or guardians) wouldn’t notice missing, from cans of beans that would last forever, to a jar of honey, from dried cranberries and nuts to an old blanket or two that they’ve been storing in a crate Fili found in the shed in Bilbo’s garden, never to be used.

They call it _The Oakenclough Battalion Barracks’,_ and Mary painted its name on a nice wide wooden plank that they have fastened on a low-hanging branch of the pine tree by the entrance to their little kingdom, and if the war ever does come this far north, Fili has promised himself to take whoever he can save and hide them away here, to stay safe until it’s all over.

“Fili! Hurry up!”

But until then, he still has to listen to Bilbo.

“Coming!” he calls, tucking his notebook and pencil in the drawer of his desk and taking the stairs down by two.

Not that he actually _minds_ listening to Bilbo - he isn’t too strict with them, and he bakes the best apple pie there is, and always has an answer for everything. Today, they’re going to the post office to pick up their fresh share of ration tickets, and if there is to be _any_ apple pie in the future, they should get there early to get their hands on enough of those, and after that, hopefully, some butter and sugar.

Kili and him have long since learned to match their pace with Bilbo’s limp, but today, they just want to dash ahead to secure themselves the first spot in the line - fortunately, they happen upon Mr Gamgee headed in the same direction with his pony and carriage, and they are allowed to ride with.

“Oh, bother,” Bilbo sighs when they see the crowd already forming in front of the old post office building, the doors not even open yet. “Fili, why don’t you run over to Prim there, save us a spot.”

“On it,” Fili nods and jumps off the carriage, swiftly navigating his way through the crowd.

“Oh, hello there,” Mrs Brandybuck waves at him, “is Bilbo with you?”

“Over there,” Fili nods, “can we stand with you?”

“Of course, yes! I believe it’ll open any minute now.”

She has been quieter and paler ever since her husband left for war, and Fili often meets her sitting at Bilbo’s table, either helping with this or that kitchen problem, or just silent and seemingly lost in thought - several times, he almost walked in on her crying and Bilbo comforting her, but he thinks he shouldn’t mention that.

“Afternoon,” Bilbo greets her, finally by their side, Kili clutching onto him, and while they start a discussion about this or that, Fili scans their surroundings.

Oakenclough has the only post office for miles around, and so people from all corners of the county cluster here, not only for their assigned rations, but also to catch up, remind each other that they are all going through the same - and of course, forfeit all friendliness when the queueing starts.

“Oh, there we go,” Bilbo gasps when everyone starts moving, “stay close to me boys, please.”

“Wait, that isn’t Mr Mulligan, is it,” Primula points out - he’s the man who usually comes with the new batch of rations, all the way from Lancaster on his motorcycle. But this time, a car pulls up, and a man in a uniform invites himself into the post office before everyone else, the commotion making it impossible to actually see what’s going on. The mass of people starts forming eventually, and forms a somewhat orderly queue, but the wait takes so much longer than usual, and when they finally make it inside the building, it becomes clearer why.

Mister Bell, the usually very kind postmaster, looks incredibly sour and displeased, and by his side stands the mysterious new arrival, all but perching to look over his shoulder at how he does his job.

“Master Baggins, good morning,” he sighs when their turn is up, reciting the next words as if he must only humor the man overseeing him: “Let’s see here... No spouse, primary source of income - disability pension. A household of one, plus two children.”

“Yes, you’ve known me since we were little,” Bilbo chuckles a bit nervously, exchanging a glance with Mrs Brandybuck, “what is this about?”

“These children, they are not yours?” the strange man asks, not a hint of emotion in his voice, and Fili senses Kili inching closer to him.

“No, sir, they came to me from London, at the beginning of the war,” Bilbo answers truthfully.

“Not related to you?”

The man is wearing a military coat, even at the height of summer, sharp features and cold eyes - Fili doesn’t like him one bit.

“No,” Bilbo says simply, but there it is already, the steel in his voice. “They are refugees of war, sent to me to keep them safe while their only remaining family member fights in said war. I have the paperwork to prove it.”

There is a brief glaring contest, Fili instinctively clutching Kili’s arm to reassure him that it’s going to be okay... And then it is.

“Just checking,” the man nods, and they see Mister Bell roll his eyes before he stamps their afforded stack of rations, Bilbo and him sharing a look as he hands them over.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says icily, “come, boys.”

They step aside to make room for Primula, and would walk away, but things out turn out a bit differently.

“Primula Brandybuck,” Mister Bell says, sounding tense already, “local teacher, married... Husband enlisted five months ago, but...”

“Childless?” the stranger asks, and Fili sees Bilbo’s knuckles whitening as he grips his cane tighter, stopping in place.

“Hold on, boys,” he says stiffly, “wait for me.”

“Yes, I... I live alone,” Mrs Brandybuck admits feebly, “and I’ve always received... Well, more than this, Mister Bell, what’s going on?”

“I’m so sorry,” the postmaster sighs quietly, but the strange man is already speaking over him.

“The rules have changed,” he declares, unnecessarily loudly in Fili’s opinion, “the war is taking an increasing toll on our country, as you well know! And as such, the rations have been amended again. This is what you are entitled to, as a single person household, with no child to feed-”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Bilbo is quick to butt in, “she _does_ still have a household to keep, and this is... Are you joking? This is not even enough to last her two weeks, much less an entire month!”

“That is the law, sir! Madam, take it or leave it.”

“This cannot be legal!” Bilbo rages on, Fili and Kili watching him with their mouths agape, everyone else in the stuffy room also paying attention now, “why did nobody tell us beforehand? This is incredibly unfair!”

“Bilbo, please, it’s alright, I...”

“No! Just because we live in the countryside, we don’t get to be informed of these changes?”

“Sir, I advise you to _calm down._ You got your rations, now please leave. You’re stalling everybody else.”

“And you’re making it impossible for my Cousin to keep herself fed! This is outrageous!”

“Bilbo, please...”

“I am required by law to distribute these rations _fairly,_ sir. You wouldn’t want to disobey the law, would you?”

“Are you threatening me?” Bilbo all but snarls, and maybe it’s just Fili, but even though he’s a head shorter than the newcomer and leaning heavily on his cane, he still looks intimidating enough to instill fear in anyone.

But then he hears Kili’s fearful sniffle, and so does Bilbo, and the moment is gone.

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” he announces, his voice so much softer all of a sudden, “it’s fine, Kili, I promise. Come here. We’re going outside.”

And he steers them out of the post office and into sharp afternoon sunlight, making his way through the amassing curious crowd with a sort of ferocious determination, clutching Kili’s hand gently - but the real fire is still in his eyes.

“I can’t believe this!” he hisses when they’re out of earshot.

“It’s fine,” Primula sighs.

“No, it’s not. How dare they! Here,” he counts off a handful of his tickets and presses them into Primula’s hand, “let’s go shopping.”

“Oh, no, please, don’t be ridiculous, you don’t have to...”

“Prim, please. I can’t count how many times you made sure the boys were fed at school. And now you can’t even afford to buy enough for yourself? Take this.”

Her eyes are glossy with tears, and she clutches the tiny papers carefully, as if she’s simultaneously afraid of accepting them, and letting them go.

“We’ll always look out for each other,” Bilbo tells her firmly, and a tear rolls down her cheek, before she smiles weakly, nodding.

“Yeah. Come on, boys. Let’s get you some dinner, alright. Are you okay, Kili?”

Fili’s brother nods, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other clutching Fili’s a bit too hard.

“We’re going to get apple pie,” Fili reminds him, and a wobbly smile spreads on Kili’s face.

“Yes, we are,” Bilbo decides, “and we’re damn well going to enjoy it.”

 

 _Dear Uncle,_ Fili writes that night, Kili fast asleep next to him, even with the night light still on, _I wish you were here. But you don’t have to worry, because Bilbo takes really good care of us. I wish you could see him - one day you will. He can’t fight in the war like you do, because he’s sick, but I think he’s just as brave as you are._

_I want you back home with us, but until the war ends, we’re going to be alright here. And maybe one day, soon I hope, we will be able to send you a letter again._

_Stay safe please_

 

_FILI_

 

The very next morning, he requests one of Bilbo’s glass jars that he keeps around for storing jam and pickled vegetables, and doesn’t tell him what it’s for - fortunately, Bilbo lets it go after some questioning, only asking him to be careful, whatever he wants to do with it.

Fili hides a handful of pressed blue and white blooms in between the folds of the letter - he wishes he knew their name, but that would mean divulging his plan to Bilbo - and stores the paper in the jar, sealing its lid as tight as he can.

That afternoon when they head to the Barracks, he finds a spot on top of the hill above the cave, where nobody ever looks, and digs with a branch and then with his hands, until the hole is deep enough to bury the jar in.

He looks at the small mound of fresh earth with a strange feeling of satisfaction. One day, they might run out of paper, too, just like they’ve run out of chocolate, and coffee for Bilbo, and butter and sugar, and when that day comes, Fili will know where to go, to still be able to send one more letter to Uncle Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, oh man, here we are! Again, sorry for the immense gaps in between chapters, it took me some time to regain my footing in this story, so to speak. The idea to write from Fili's POV was a lifesaver, I had so much fun and I think I'm definitely going to revisit that in the future. Speaking of that, there will be one more chapter and then a bit of a time skip - while writing wartime is fun, I do want to inch us closer to them actually meeting at some point :D Hope you enjoyed it, let me know! :)


	9. Chapter 9

_ My dearest Primula, _

 

_ Greece was a hell and a half. My sincerest apologies for the incredible delay which you will no doubt end up receiving this letter with - our troops were in such a hurry to retreat, there was simply no time to stop. _

_ Do you remember how we talked about visiting Greece, someday? See Athens and the mountains, swim in the sea? I regret to report that I might not be able to step foot back here, ever again. I will not go into detail, as I don’t half wish to relive these past several months, but the events of these battles have soured the experience of this country for me for good. _

_ How I envy the boys who get to return home, albeit briefly. The Battle of Crete ended with the sight of our ships, the Royal Navy, coming to take the injured to safety - it seemed endless, Prim, the line of people boarding those ships, and yet I wasn’t lucky enough to be among them. I survived without so much as a scratch, but it also means that I must keep fighting - must delay seeing you. _

_ I don’t know where they will take us next - there are talks of reinforcing Tobruk, or perhaps even ending up on a ship ourselves, to take us god knows where in distant Asia. I half wish for a broken limb or two, if that’s what it takes for me to go home. _

_ You may write to me at the address provided - there seems to be some stability in our position, but it is impossible to say how long that will last. Long enough to hear from you, I hope. Please write to me of what goes on back home again - any and all details, no matter how tiny or seemingly insignificant, serve to put my mind at ease, at least a little bit. _

_ With love, _

 

_ Drogo _

 

She looks over her shoulder, as if there might be anyone there to witness her reaction, and then she presses her lips to the letter, scrunching her eyes shut - one breath is all she needs. It was not always so, she would break at the sight of an unopened envelope alone, agonized over every single perceived change in Drogo’s handwriting, spent sleepless nights imagining what horrors he might be going through, if he even had the time to lie down and sleep himself...

Apparently it’s true what they say - time does dull the edges of even the worst of aches, and she carries her own close to her chest, not permitting it to close around her lungs and heart like a metal cage, constricting with each thought she might spare for her absent husband.

No, this ache, there’s no getting rid of, and she has long since learned to live with it - she must. Drogo, and others like him, have been surviving far worse, after all.

She knows how to keep herself busy, she’s quite good at that, and something to occupy her mind is always most sorely needed after a new letter arrives - that day, she manages to completely rearrange her linen closet, bake two pies,  _ and _ finish winterizing the garden, all in the span of one morning spent decidedly  _ not _ thinking about Drogo somewhere halfway between here and Greece.

“Aunt Prim! Hello!”

The boys arrive right on schedule, hand in hand, virtually a sight for sore eyes - and how happy she is that they’ve stopped calling her  _ Mrs Brandybuck _ \- and she ushers them inside to wait out the cold while she gets ready.

“Has Bilbo packed enough food for you?” she demands, “I have some poppyseed cakes still in the back of the pantry, I think, and maybe we could stop by the bakery on our way to the train station...”

“We have everything we need,” Fili smiles at her, “Bilbo said you’d worry too much.”

“He says we are to behave!” Kili pipes in, munching away on a dried apple from the bowl on the table. “And not to talk to strangers.”

“Well, Bilbo is right,” she sighs, “alright then. Yes. I believe we will have a marvelous time, don’t you?”

 

It’s a small mercy for both of them, really. Bilbo hasn’t gone a day without the boys since they came here, years ago, and she knows him far too well - before they arrived, he did everything in his power to fit the definition of the resident village recluse, and no matter how much the two boys might have changed his overall mood for the better, they still are a handful.

As for Primula herself... well, there is something to be said for hopping on a train and visiting a long-estranged friend all the way in Lancaster, taking out her nice coat, along with the good hat, for the first time since the war started, and taking two boys to see the city,  making them feel a little less like the forests around Oakenclough are the very edges of their world.

They chatter away excitedly as the train sneaks through ravines and tunnels, on to fields and pastures, the trees all but bare now, the sky pale, all nature preparing for the winter ahead. Just as well, Primula thinks - a few more weeks, and almost all the passes and difficult roads that connect Oakenclough to the outside world will be snowed in, and its people will, yet again, have to make do on their own.

“Now, keep close to me, both of you,” she urges to boys to her side when they disembark, the bustle of Lancaster almost tangible with the first step they take, and for their part, Fili and Kili seem to be in an almost reverent awe of their surroundings, eyes wide, Kili clutching onto Primula’s skirt seemingly only as an afterthought, Fili already no doubt half giving in to his urge to run off exploring.

“Ah, there she is,” Primula gasps happily at the sight of a frantically waving bundle of joy that is Mary, her former classmate, and a teacher herself.

She is also alone now, as are many other women, no ring on her finger to cement her devotion to her Billy off somewhere in faraway Asia at the moment, but she speaks about him no less ardently, when they do finally have the time to actually talk later that day - Mary has prepared a wonderful little room for the boys to stay overnight, while Primula and her will share the one other bed in her teeny tiny uptown apartment. They have a moment to themselves at last, only after having fed the boys and put them to sleep, which required  _ a lot _ of reading, and a promise to Fili to let him borrow the book to take with him back home.

“They’re a handful, aren’t they,” Mary smiles, preparing their tea in quick, practiced movements, “and you said your cousin has been taking care of them alone, all this time? The one with the cane?”

“The one with the cane, yes,” Primula chuckles, “honestly, half the time I’m not even sure how he manages it. They are sweet boys, though. So bright.”

“No family of their own?”

“Their uncle fights,” Primula sighs, “but they lost their parents shortly before the war started, from what I understand.”

“Poor little souls,” Mary shakes her head, setting a cup of steaming hot tea before Prim.

 

They do talk about their men eventually, when there are no more pleasantries to get through, no more little jokes or memories from their school days - there is, however, just a hint of rum in their tea at that hour, and they sit closer together, more at ease.

The sadness is always the same, untranslatable to someone who isn’t going through it, and Primula wonders how she’s managed this long, without a soul to confide in. Oh, Bilbo has been doing his best, and succeeding, at keeping her in high spirits, but this is something that she’s been missing - someone who simply  _ knows. _

“I waited seven weeks for the last letter,” Mary sighs, cheeks redder, eyes glossy, “I think I was at the post office twice a day towards the end, poor old Mrs Leigh must have thought I was crazy. But you listen to the news, don’t you, always thinking about where he might be, if he’s... one of them...”

“I know,” Primula reaches for her hand, patting gently, “believe me, I know. I haven’t been able to sleep, I always wake up before the chickens, and spend my mornings outside, looking down the road for the postman to arrive. When he actually did yesterday, I think I scared him half to death, running towards him like a madwoman.”

They laugh together, and even in that, their shared grief can be heard, for none but them to recognize.

“God help me, I do wish this blasted war was over,” Mary says, words somewhat slurred, the late hour and the added spice in their tea both at fault. “I tell you, if I didn’t busy myself with the Initiative, I might have lost my mind a long time ago.”

“The Initiative?” Prim wonders, “what’s that?”

 

The Women’s Initiative, as it turns out, is about the best thing to have come out of the home front, and Primula doesn’t half understand why it hasn’t reached Oakenclough yet. Neither does Mary, devoting all her time to introducing Prim to not one, not two, but about a good dozen of women in her immediate neighborhood, all left alone at home, alone with their households and children, but not alone in their desire to simply  _ do something _ to help the effort.

They all meet in a beautiful old building that used to be some sort of a factory, and has since been redecorated to accommodate for everything, from sewing machines to bookshelves, from cozy armchairs to actual stoves - from the ladies themselves, hard at work, to their children, playing while their mothers make sure that everyone’s spirits are lifted, that the world around them doesn’t remain as paralyzed by all the horrors of the war as the enemy would no doubt like it to be.

The topic of the day is... jam, as it turns out, and after making sure that Fili and Kili are perfectly happy to acquaint themselves with all the other children, Primula follows Mary and the others around, amazed like it’s her first time in church, simply listening.

“We must make sure everyone is adequately prepared for the winter, you see,” explains Mrs Eleanor, the apparent leader of this close knit group of war wives, older than many of them by a long shot, her stern face, sharp features and piercing eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses reminding Primula of many of the women who used to teach her how to teach, back in the day.

“Brewing jam is an excellent way of preserving all leftover fruit, as I’m sure you know,” Mrs Eleanor continues, leading her on a tour around the stoves, all burning with a hearty heat, at least two large bubbling pots on each. “And of course the children will appreciate the sweetness. The season has long passed now, you see, but we run the morning markets in the city, too, gathering everyone from the surrounding villages with anything they might spare to sell, vegetables, clothes, dishes, what have you. Where did you say you were from?”

“I’m, uh... Oakenclough,” Primula feels fifteen years younger, called to the blackboard out of the blue to answer a question she’s decidedly forgotten the answer to, “quite a ways off, I’m afraid.”

“Quite,” Mrs Eleanor measures her over the rim of her glasses, “still, there is no reason not to lend a hand! I imagine a rural community like that is already proficient at sharing the load, so to speak, is that not so? Surely the women of your village would welcome the opportunity to organize their efforts. Think about it, dear.”

And truly, Primula does.

 

_ Dear Drogo, _

 

_ I do so hope to see you again soon - although the idea of you getting injured to make that happen is not exactly a nice one. You will be happy to know that your wife does not sit at home with idle hands all day long; I still remember you urging me to busy myself, to avoid cutting contact with our acquaintances, to never be alone. _

_ Perhaps you have heard of them, and if not, I will be happy to shed some light on the organization - through a visit to my friend Mary (you remember Mary, from Lancaster, don’t you?), I have discovered the Women’s Initiative, and long overdue, too. _

_ They are far more organized in the larger cities, of course, which is why I haven’t heard of them until now, but their seemingly unceasing passion surprised even me. Their goal is simple, you see - to keep their homes, their communities, running and in high spirits, be it through organizing all sorts of get-togethers and markets, or sharing a surplus of goods between one another, or even taking care of the many displaced children without parents, much like our very own Fili and Kili. _

_ Now, presenting the idea of an organized movement to the matrons of Oakenclough has not met with unanimous support, as you might well imagine - our dear Lobelia has been griping about the ‘incessant need to feel in any way useful’ ever since I pitched the idea the other Sunday after church, but that’s just it, is it not? We all need to feel useful. I know I do. _

_ Long story short, the entire village has been picking rosehips all November long, and Doctor Brown has had to teach several of us how to cook syrup from it, since he simply couldn’t handle the workload alone, or so he says. You see, rosehip syrup is very rich in vitamin C, and we will all of us need all the health we can get, with another harsh winter coming. _

_ I do wish I were able to send any of it to you. Do they feed you anything, beyond bland military rations? When was the last time you had proper hot ginger tea with some honey? My love, any time you decide you have done your fair share of work for the war, I will be waiting for you, with a steaming cup of it in my hands. That much I can certainly promise, and hopefully you will have yet another thing to look forward to. _

_ With love, forever yours _

 

_ Primula _

 

-

 

“Uncle! Uncle, wake up, look!”

The light is almost too much, almost overwhelming, and he opens his eyes only reluctantly, offering a drowsy smile, even though his nephews are barely past blurs of copper and dark brown in his field of vision at this point.

“Come on, you have to see!” A small hand is tugging at his arm, and he groans, rolling over.

“Alright, alright, hang on...” he sighs, following, wincing when his feet touch the cold floor, toeing into his slippers, still half asleep.

“Uncle!” Fili insists.

“Yes, yes, I’m up, I’m up, what is it?”

“Merry Christmas!”

Snow covers every available surface outside, a pristine white suggesting that it really did all descend overnight, and to the boys, it’s far more exciting right now than any of the Christmas presents that might be waiting for them.

“Mom said we can go outside after lunch!” Fili claims excitedly, “will you go with us? Can we build a snowman?”

_ Snow... _ He knows it, knows it’s a cold Christmas Day morning, knows how it  _ feels, _ and yet, he can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t as it should be, something is off, something...

The boys’ shrieking laughter as they hurl snowballs at him, as they lie on the ground and spread their arms and legs to make snow angels, their ruddy cheeks and eyes gleaming, the quiet crackle of the fireplace when they finally make it inside... All of it dissipates into thin air, the images losing their color, not quite silence in their place, but rather a rising, deafening hum, his  _ own _ cheeks unnaturally hot, his movements almost impossible to perform, like he’s wading through mud...

Something explodes overhead, the ringing in his ears snapping some sense back into him.

“Colonel!  _ Thorin! _ ”

Another sort of grip on his arm, pulling him to his feet, pulling him away from the comfortable illusion of his bed back at his sister’s house, so, so far away now it might as well have been in another lifetime.

Dwalin’s face, he does recognize, and even that brings a bitter tinge to his tongue - not his family, not one of the boys... Although that might as well be the dust in his lungs, prompting a hacking cough, his throat threatening to split apart.

“Get up! Right now!”

He can only make out the shapes of the words, not actually hear them, deafened by whatever presumably just went off near him, but the context begins returning to him, albeit in flashes - enough to prompt some effort, at least.

With a lot of help from Dwalin, he manages to rise to his knees, to his feet next, and the world sways and rushes past him, as if everything had been suspended in time and place up until that moment - gunfire ripping into stone, a dozen overlapping voices, the staccato of approaching panzers, still as viscerally terrifying as the first time he heard it, that’s never going to change.

“If we don’t get out of here  _ right now, _ we’re getting mowed down, now  _ move! _ ”

“Alright, I’m up, I’m up...” Thorin slurs, dizzy still, like a great exhaustion weighing down on him, like he never should have gotten out of that bed back home.

He remains blissfully unaware of where they are, what’s going on,  _ who _ they’re even fighting, all the way through the chaotic retreat, Dwalin’s iron grip the only thing saving him from toppling off the side of the car carrying them away, and there might be a medic or three fussing over him, but he couldn’t respond even if he wanted to - before his eyes, he still sees his nephews, excited, happy, demanding he play with them, a fata morgana his overheated brain is no doubt supplying him with out of mercy.

The facts remain the same, no matter how he wishes to fall into a deep sleep and wake up in a world that doesn’t threaten to come apart at the seams - Rommel has been calling their bluffs left and right, and with so many lost at Sidi Rezegh, their position is dangerously volatile, even now. Coordinating has been hell, Thorin gets to see that firsthand, and after so many failed encounters all along the line of the desert, it’s not a question of  _ if _ the luck of their initial upper hand will crumble - it’s more appropriate to ask  _ when. _

“You know as well as I do that morale could use a boost,” Dwalin sighs, feet up on the table, his head just one cloud of smoke -  _ where _ the man manages to get his hands on viable tobacco is a mystery to Thorin still, after all these years. “We need a win, and soon.”

“Yes, well, those are in short supply these days,” Thorin sighs, rearranging the cold cloth on his forehead, his ears still ringing faintly, even hours and hours later.

“That much is obvious,” Dwalin grumbles, “but this is too tense, for all of us. Too long without catching a break.”

“We can go catch one tonight.”

“Yeah, because that was such a swell idea. Who even came up with it?”

“I understand it’s common practice for the troops back... back home,” Thorin falters even thinking about the situation in the motherland, “you understand getting musicians  _ here _ is a bit more of a challenge.”

“Mm, you don’t say,” Dwalin rolls his eyes, “in the middle of a goddamn warzone, too! Who’s going to take care of them, huh? We already have enough civilians making things difficult around here.”

“Just be glad it’s not  _ your _ job,” Thorin nudges him mildly,  _ you don’t always have to adopt  _ everyone  _ into the unit, _ “and make sure that all our boys are having fun tonight.”

“You’re not coming?” Dwalin scowls.

“You’re joking, right? With  _ this _ headache?” Thorin pats the cloth on his forehead, not even in the general vicinity of cold anymore. “I’ll be glad if I manage to catch a good night’s sleep. And that’s  _ after _ the executive meeting.”

“Ah, that,” Dwalin squints in sympathy, “I guess they really didn’t like Cunningham’  _ proposal, _ huh.”

“So much for trying to save lives while we’re all already burning in hell,” Thorin shrugs.

“Do you know this Ritchie guy?”

“Saw him in Dunkirk last,” Thorin says, “but I don’t think any of us were at our model best then. He did save a lot of lives there...”

“So did Cunningham, right here,” Dwalin offers, and Thorin merely nods, exhausted to even entertain anything approaching politics right now.

The truth of the matter is, they’re all the same to him, at the end of the day - either they care about getting the job done, or they care about minimizing casualties, and he’s found that there’s rarely an in between. This particular campaign leaves no place for it, either, and he recalls it, he does, letting a building crumble on his head for the off-chance of saving his people only a couple of months earlier... 

Right now, still shaken from his most recent close call with death - how many have there been at this point, it’s difficult to count them - all that he finds himself caring about is rest, just a second to catch his breath, close his eyes, regain some sort of an equilibrium, provided that that, too, is not a long-buried casualty of this war.

“Dispatch for you, sir.”

The soldier somehow finds him on his way to a solitary bed  _ somewhere, _ after the largely fruitless and thoroughly frustrating meeting, and Thorin can only stare at the crisp envelope being handed to him for the longest time, so thoroughly weary that he cannot fathom a proper response.

It’s marked with all the proper military stamps signifying  _ just how _ top secret it is, just how arduous its journey here must have been, and yet, all that is on his mind as he lies in his bed for the night, turning it over in his hand, is a profound disappointment. He’s lost count of many things during his service here, how long it’s been since a proper hot bath, a proper hot meal, the last time he woke up undressed, without having to immediately jump to his feet and run somewhere... But he still remembers perfectly the date he wrote on the last letter to his nephews, the last one he managed to send anyway, and he really, deeply wishes he did not, wishes the last knock on the head he suffered had been merciful enough to make him forget.

The tin can in his breast pocket is almost overflowing with neatly folded papers at this point, no matter how thin, no matter how frayed at the edges from being unfolded so many times over, and in between them, the pressed flowers - translucent, imperceptibly thin, and yet, they too take up space. It’s a wonder, then, that he himself feels so very empty.

He only opens the letter because it has been sent to him all the way from Europe, and if anything, he should find out what was so important that it had to be hand delivered to him.

 

_ My dear Colonel Durin, _

 

_ You would not believe Greece this time of the year. Quite a sight. I am keeping an eye on you and your people, and though it might not seem it, you are succeeding, in the grand scheme of things. I am convinced that if a victory is to be had, it will happen on African ground, and soon. _

_ Our luck here in the sunnier parts of our continent is bound to run out soon, but there’s  no need to worry - often, if we consider an outcome inevitable, we hurtle towards it regardless of how much conscious steering is involved in the process. _

_ I do not write to you to offer empty words of comfort, however - I believe you would be pleased to know that just as diligently as I have been watching your progress, I have also not forgotten our agreement, and have been corresponding Bilbo Baggins. Not at any sort of satisfying frequency, mind you, but that is entirely my fault, as a war tends to keep a man busy, but you should know that all your efforts, all of our collective efforts, have not been in vain, as evidenced by none else than your young nephews. _

_ I am given to believe that they are prospering, as you might well expect - I don’t rightly know how much of wartime coverage makes it to your end of the world, but rest assured that the horrors of it will never reach the cozy little village of Oakenclough. We are all making sure of that, after all. _

_ If you would like, and are capable of doing so, you may send a reply to me at the address provided, complete with all the necessary security precautions, of course. If you happen to also attach a short letter to your nephews, I will do everything in my power to pass it on, to make its way to their rightful owners. _

_ I wish you the best of luck, sincerely yours _

 

_ Gandalf Grey _

 

He doesn’t really realize the tears are there until he’s absentmindedly wiping them away, looking at the paper blindly now, holding it in front of his face rigidly, his mind elsewhere. The dull, aching ferocity he misses his nephews with is affecting him more severely than any wartime injury ever could, and he feels so thoroughly alone, so very weak, in that one fragile moment, being reminded of what he fights for, has fought for, all this time... And, at the same time, feeling like he has no fight left in him whatsoever.

He doesn’t blow out the oil lamp by his bed quite yet. There is laughter, and there is, indeed, music, coming in from afar, everyone else busy forgetting themselves for just a precious few moments,  _ catching a break, _ like Dwalin had said... For him, that means something else entirely.

He sits crouched by the flickering, unreliable glow of the lamp for the longest time, chasing away sleep, chasing away the throbbing ache in his temples - all for the chance to write but one letter he may actually be able to send.

 

-

 

_ To _

_ Baggins, Bilbo, Oakenclough 41, Lancashire _

 

_ Master Baggins, _

_ Regarding your inquiry, we offer free access to the library of our University not only to our alumni, such as you, but also the wider public - however, with the shortcomings of wartime, we, too, have been forced to restrict ourselves, and are currently incapable and unwilling to lend any of the books you have listed outside the immediate grounds of our institution. _

_ As there is simply no telling how long the current state of events will prevail, I’m afraid we cannot offer any more satisfying answer. You are, of course, welcome to visit and study the books to your heart’s content in person, but while the situation remains as it is, I understand that that is a lukewarm comfort at best. _

_ Wishing you and your studies the best in these trying times, _

_ Sincerely _

 

_ Allatar Blue, Administrator, Language Centre _

_ University of Cambridge _

 

He sighs, putting the letter away after spending some time staring somewhat dazedly at the familiar coat of arms at the top of it - he didn’t really expect anything else, to be honest, but the disappointment is still there. He would have liked the opportunity to busy himself with something else besides the grating, repetitive worries of his everyday existence, and suddenly, he misses his alma mater with a passion, his time spent there just one more distant memory that feels too sweet to even be true these days.

He sighs, stretching his arms, burrowing deeper into the old armchair, and the plaid around his shoulders, and he takes a moment simply to rest, pondering whether he has enough energy to go and light at least some of the candles on the Christmas tree, just for lunch, just because Kili likes them so much.

_ Don’t undress the tree before its time, _ his mother always used to say,  _ keep the green as long as you can, and the winter will be kind to you. _ He doesn’t know where she got it from, his grandmother probably, but the boys worked really hard on the decorations this year, and whenever Bilbo looks at it, it succeeds at making him feel a bit warmer, a bit less like they’re only putting on a show. Christmas has long since passed them, and the New Year’s Eve dinner is tonight, and yet, the tree stays, the colorful paper ring chains, the handmade straw decorations, the two porcelain angel dolls on fraying golden threads his grandmother used to never let anyone touch... It’s nice to look at, and there’s a precious little of  _ nice _ to go around these days.

“Did we get anything, Bilbo? We saw the postman going down the hill!”

That’s Fili announcing himself, heard dutifully stomping snow off his boots at the door, hopefully prompting his brother to do the same, and soon, they are both seated at the table, cheeks ruddy and eyes gleaming.

“I’m afraid not,” Bilbo forces himself to reply as lightly as possible, “how fares the snowman building?”

“He’s almost finished!” Kili announces proudly, watching intently as Fili pours them both a steaming mug of tea. “We just need the pen!”

“The... what now? A pen? For a snowman? Weren’t you going to build Uncle Thorin again?”

“We did!”

“Only this year, he’s writing a letter,” Fili explains, “we built him near the apple tree, and made it look like he’s writing on it. Because a paper would get soaked. We just need a good stick that looks like a pen.”

“Oh, of course,” Bilbo smiles, “well, it’s good that you’re giving him a break, then, not making him stand vigil with a wooden rifle all winter long.”

_ And I imagine your Uncle would much rather be writing letters right now, than whatever else it is he’s doing at the moment. _

They eat in companionable silence, interrupted every now and then by this or that remark from the boys, but nothing else. Winter is with them in full now, and one of the many unfortunate side effects of being so thoroughly snowed in seems to be the lack of radio contact with the outside world, the broadcast tuning in and out in unpredictable intervals, leaving them with very few news, and even fewer Christmas carols for the children.

If one squints, it almost looks like any other holiday season before the war, silent, pristine and uninterrupted, but they all know by now just how much danger there is in thinking like that. Oakenclough has been spared only thanks to its remote location, and there’s no victory in that.

“Let me in, before I freeze out here!”

Primula arrives bundled up to her nose, dragging the same wooden sled that Bilbo and her used to pummel down the hill behind the post office when they were children, only now it carries a diligently secured, but still somewhat wobbly and clinking, crate full of glass bottles.

“Dr Brown finally delivered!” Bilbo grins, ushering her inside, urging Fili to help her carry her load.

“Finally,” she huffs, “it took ages, but I know the recipe now, so I’ll be able to make more myself. Anyway, here we are, bitter as they come, Oakenclough’s first batch of rosehip syrup!”

“That’s... all of it, is it?” Bilbo asks carefully.

“Don’t be silly!” she laughs, “Ham Gamgee picked some up in the morning, about a dozen crates, he promised to store it until tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right. I still think it’s amazing that you’re practically forcing it down everyone’s throats.”

“Everyone needs vitamin C, Bilbo!” she declares sternly, “god help you if I discover you lot haven’t been drinking yours!”

“Not to worry,” Bilbo chuckles, pointing to Kili already struggling with the lid of one of the bottles. “I think we’ll be just fine.”

She hurries over to help the boy, and Bilbo watches her like a hawk, albeit subtly - force of habit, at this point, really.

For the longest time, Prim seemed despondent, to say the least, hit harder by her husband’s absence than she let on, idle and wasting away in her sadness, but not anymore. No, now she has a cause, something to argue over with people, something she believes in, and it’s a blessing, really, even if it tastes bitter like rosehip.

It’s not that Oakenclough was thoroughly disorganized until Primula brought the ideas of the Women’s Initiative home with her from Lancaster - no, it’s the fact that very little propaganda ever reaches their secluded corner of the world, and the things that have seemed so natural to them for decades now, none of them ever really considered organizing over.

Everyone and their mother brews jam, everyone sells or outright just gives vegetables to their neighbor if they have a surplus, and everyone is very invested in keeping the produce market running every other Saturday, but it never occurred to them that there might be another sort of drive hiding behind that, a different sort of urge to help.

Then Primula came, with her rekindled passion and ideas about uniting, producing  _ more _ , working  _ together _ , and she’s been quick to get a lot of the other women on board, as well as nagging at Dr Brown until he relented and began teaching the most enthusiastic of them how to make the staple of the home front effort, the aforementioned rosehip syrup... Really, Bilbo is just glad for the feeling of...  _ something _ happening, and for the change in his cousin’s demeanor, certainly for the better.

And if he gets to see Lobelia sneer at the sight of  _ neighborhood collegiality, _ then, well, that’s just the proverbial cherry - rosehip? - on top.

 

The cheery tinkling of jingle bells announces the arrival of Hamfast Gamgee shortly after the dark has begun to claim their valley, and they all squeeze into his sleigh, wrapping themselves up to their chins in furs, except for Fili, who demands to sit right next to Hamfast, watching him handle the reins very intently.

This, too, is something they haven’t let the war change, something they cling to with all their might - meeting at Lobelia’s country manor, everyone scraping their reserves to produce the best meal they’re currently capable of, letting themselves forget for one night that there is hardly any butter to put into their pies and stuffing, and no chocolates to placate the children with these days... Hamfast still dresses his two black and white ponies in meticulously maintained red leather he only ever gets out around Christmas, and the lantern bobbing atop the sleigh can often be seen from far, far away, the only glimmer of light in the endless forests putting a distance between all of them, like a firefly, like an ember.

“Do you think Uncle had a Christmas dinner?” Kili asks Bilbo, nothing but the red tip of his nose peeking out of his numerous layers, mittens clutching onto Bilbo’s arm.

“I think maybe he did,” Bilbo says as casually as he can manage, glad the dark conceals his own face somewhat. “Although who knows what they eat over there in Africa, eh? What do you think?”

“...Snakes?” the boy postulates, and bursts into laughter alongside the adults’, Primula and Hamfast’s wife Pearl diverting their attention from their own murmured gossip to Kili now.

“Snakes?” Prim wonders.

“Maybe insects,” Bilbo offers.

“Sand,” Hamfast grumbles over his shoulder.

“Ew!”

“Well, what do we know!”

Their conjoined laughter is muted by the heavy duvet of white around them, but it still keeps them warm until they reach Lobelia’s house atop the hill overlooking the village, shining like a lighthouse in a sea of snow.

 

The dinner is had, and the rosehip syrup distributed, and the old year becomes the new without much pomp, and Oakenclough slumbers. The snow makes it impossible to get anywhere quicker than at a snail’s pace, and the frost bites at the cheeks of those who try, so many people opt simply to stay indoors, where it’s safe and warm.

Primula stays over at Bilbo’s - it’s so much more efficient to try and keep four people warm in one building, than wasting heat on one tiny woman sitting alone in an old house that’s too big for her. And it gives Bilbo the nudge needed to give a once over to the tiny room adjacent to his bedroom - used to be his father’s study, and it has steadily been filling with the boys’ things ever since they came here, books, Kili’s doodles, Bilbo’s growing collection of yarn (one apparently knits  _ a lot _ with children involved), anything and everything that doesn’t have a proper place elsewhere.

“The boys have long since claimed this bed for their Uncle, whenever he does return,” Bilbo notes as Prim and him are in the midst of shuffling around the old clothes from the wardrobe into the chest by the foot of the bed. “Just thought I should warn you.”

“How sweet,” she chuckles, “so you’re fully prepared to take care of them all until your dying day, then?”

For that, Bilbo doesn’t have a suitable answer, and they don’t need to talk about it more to know that they’re both thinking the same - it’s not a question of  _ when _ the Colonel will return them, but a question of  _ if ever. _

He doesn’t deny the relief of it, having another helping hand with the boys, as well as someone to truly talk to after they’ve put Fili and Kili to sleep - Prim is just always  _ there, _ ready to help out, always looking for ways to keep herself busy, and Bilbo doesn’t think his place has been this thoroughly cleaned, sweeped and organized since his mother was still alive.

And a good thing, too, because Bilbo soon finds himself severely out of his depth, reminded yet again just how little he’s come to learn about proper child care. Maybe he’s being too harsh with himself, but really, he could have recognized Kili’s sniffling as the beginnings of something far more serious a while ago...

The fact doesn’t change that within the span of a couple of days, the boy is completely bedridden, his usually unruly black hair sticking in sweaty curls to his forehead, his entire body heating up in a fever unlike anything Bilbo has ever encountered.

They stay up with him, moving him onto the ottoman in Prim’s temporary room so she may keep an eye on him, worried more about infecting Fili than themselves, really, even though the older boy protests, demanding to spend as much time with Kili as possible.

Come the fourth day, Prim and Fili run out to get Dr Brown, while Bilbo sits by Kili’s bedside, a bucket of cold water by the bed, that’s how quickly he needs to change the clothes on the boy’s forehead.

“Just hold on, darling,” Bilbo sighs, “hold on just a while longer.”

Kili’s dry lips move soundlessly in the beginnings of nonsense words, and a hacking cough rattles his tiny lungs, each of them like a thunderclap to Bilbo’s ears.

He feels so utterly helpless and useless right there and then, incapable of helping Kili, incapable of fixing whatever’s wrong, not even clever enough to have seen it coming... By the time he hears the frantic shuffle of footsteps at the front door, he has all but managed to convince himself that he is the worst person alive, utterly incapable of raising children in any capacity whatsoever.

Dr Brown disputes that idea entirely, commending Bilbo on keeping the boy hydrated and the room well ventilated, and produces from within his large leather bag a stethoscope, and later an entire array of all those herbal remedies he is most known for - and as Bilbo doesn’t exactly have the luxury of a second professional opinion, snowed in in the middle of nowhere, he sets his doubt aside and takes them, writing down all of the doctor’s instructions, as chaotic as they might come.

The days after that are comprised of brewing more and more potent teas, making Kili swallow a very bitter sort of cough syrup, and hoping for the best. Bilbo sleeps very little, woken up by every little cough or a sniffle, and though Kili’s temperature seems to be going down, he still spends most of his time not making a whole lot of sense at all. Bilbo doesn’t think he’d like to count the amount of times he’s been called ‘Uncle’, and didn’t have the heart to dispute that.

And the snow simply doesn’t stop falling, and out of the window of the upstairs bedroom, Bilbo and Kili can see Fili repairing the somewhat uneven figure of the snowman every time he gets a fresh coat of fluffy white, eternally stuck writing his letter into the bark of the old oak tree.

“Look, Kili,” Bilbo prompts him in the rare moments that his eyes flutter open and he’s capable of sitting up, “Uncle Thorin says hello.”

That is usually accompanied by Fili sending a snowball splatting against the window, but not this time, and Bilbo gets up laboriously to see - Fili is nowhere to be found, must have headed inside...

“Bilbo!  _ Bilbo! _ ” comes such an urgent call from downstairs that both Bilbo and Fili startle.

“Goodness! What is it?”

“Come down here  _ now! _ ”

“Can’t Prim help you? You know it takes so long for me to-”

“Please!” Fili’s voice is just a tad on the desperate side of pleading, and Bilbo hears another voice then, one that certainly does  _ not _ belong to Primula.

“Wait here,” he orders Kili, grabbing onto his cane. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m sorry, Fili, but it seems the man is right.” Now that  _ is _ Prim, and she sounds, if anything, cautious. “Wait for Bilbo.”

“I’m on my way!”

What greets him is the sight of a stranger at his doorstep, clad in faded military green, and a coat several sizes too big for him, pale but stern, so out of place here - and by his side, Mr Bell the postman himself, huffing and puffing, as if he’s been forced to jog up the hill to the house.

“Master Baggins!” he sighs, “so sorry for the inconvenience, but this... gentleman insisted to deliver the letter to you personally-”

“He wouldn’t even let me take it!” Fili complains.

“Afternoon, sir,” the stranger says, “are you Bilbo Baggins?”

“Uh... hm. Yes, well... I am. Yes. What is this about?”

“Corporal Wilkins, 47th London Infantry Division. I have a letter for you. To be delivered to your hands only.”

“Oh my... Isn’t that exciting. Won’t you come in, Corporal.”

“Kind of you, sir, but I must be going.”

“Did you say you came from London? I certainly wouldn’t mind to hear the news, perhaps over a cup of tea?”

The man stares at him, not a twitch in his face, and Bilbo realizes just how young a face it is, and how little of its actual youth remains visible - it’s like looking in the eyes of a painting, so devoid of emotion. His lips are blue from the cold.

“I’m afraid I really can’t stay. Here.”

And he presses a thick envelope into his hands, turning on his heel and marching back down the hill, leaving all of them staring mutely for a moment or two.

“Well then,” Primula comments.

“Strange fellow,” Mr Bell confesses, “came out of nowhere, wouldn’t even let us check the letter for proper postage! Demanded to see you right away, Master Bilbo, and when I told him the roads were all snowed in, he just started walking!”

“Is that right,” Bilbo mumbles absentmindedly, somehow both insanely curious about the contents of the envelope, and scared to actually open it. “Well, thank you Mr Bell, truly. I’d invite you in, but we have a sick child at home, as you might know...”

And before the postman can continue, Bilbo is already headed inside, crowded by Fili, and Primula too, albeit a bit more subtly.

“Open it!” Fili demands, “it could be from Uncle!”

“Yes, yes, now hold on...”

_ London Infantry Division Headquarters, _ the envelope reads, and is stamped with a seal so intricate Bilbo can’t even begin to decipher it, and ironically, the big red  _ CONFIDENTIAL _ across the front of it gives him some hope. He discovers several papers all folded together, the one at the top very rich and thick, the letter written on a typewriter, the same seal atop the sheet, and... yes, he recognizes that signature.

“It’s from... yes, Gandalf,” he tries very hard not to let the disappointment be heard, “he asks after us, and... oh! Wait...  _ I managed to reestablish contact with the African front some time ago, and I am happy to announce that it lent Colonel Durin the opportunity to send his letter through me, instead of waiting for an opportune few seconds of cease fire... _ ”

“It’s Uncle! He wrote!”

And indeed, there is clearly  _ much more _ than one paper, and Bilbo need only glance at the familiar sharp cursive to feel a wave of thoroughly disarming relief wash over him.

“Yes, yes, here - here you go,” he wrestles lightly with Fili’s restless hands, freeing the part of the letter meant for the boys from the bundle, Fili fortunately too excited to inquire too much about the rest.

“Let’s go, let’s read it to your brother,” Primula smiles, casting Bilbo a knowing look and ushering Fili away and up the stairs.

All of a sudden, his fingers are too anxious to even open the sheet of paper no doubt meant for him. He rereads Gandalf’s letter, but finds himself utterly incapable of paying attention; finally, he regards the Colonel’s, still half convinced that he’ll discover it was actually a mistake, that something horrible has happened...

 

_ Mr Baggins, _

 

_ Words cannot describe the relief I feel, being able to write to you once again. The situation here in the desert continues to be volatile, and if it weren’t for Gandalf’s timely offer, I don’t believe I would be able to snatch the opportunity any time soon. _

_ They all tell you that victory is near, that if we just persevere a while longer, we will succeed, but the truth is, our resources, our patience and our spirit, are all wearing thin. We persevere yet; we still have a reason to fight. _

_ Right now, I am seated by the very unreliable glow of an oil lamp, incapable of recalling the last time I had a quiet, soft place to sleep, and I think I just spent a good five minutes staring into space, attempting to find a coherent way of continuing this letter. _

_ In all honesty, my strength is all but gone. I am in a state of such permanent exhaustion that not even the sleep I do manage to get offers any sort of relief at this point. Although, I don’t think I ever really accounted for the healing effects of our continued correspondence, because the simple promise of being able to pick up where we left off, has rejuvenated me, if only to stay awake long enough to finish writing this. Still, a victory is needed, and soon, although I am in no state of mind to even truly predict the possibility of one. _

_ I think our mutual friend might offer, as of now, a reasonably reliable means of communication. If I get to make any request of you at all, it would be not to hold back, and write to me in great detail about the events of these past several months. I confess to missing your words terribly - your way with them, and your refusal to mince them. I look forward to hearing from you, _

_ Faithfully yours _

 

_ Lt Col Thorin Durin _

 

Bilbo is left staring at the letter mutely for quite some time, ignorant of all the sounds of the house, the voices from upstairs, everything. The urgency of the soldier’s words weighs heavily on him, and it’s a strange way to be, indeed - half utterly elated at reading them, half worried sick.

 

But then, the boys get to write a letter that they will actually manage to send - provided Bilbo makes sense of all the complicated instructions to reach Gandalf and, through him, their Uncle - and by the time he makes it upstairs, Kili is sitting up in his bed for the first time in days, smiling in what feels like much, much longer than that.

And by the time January has given way to February, their letter has been sent, their radio is playing songs again, and there is talk of a first victory.

 

-

 

They’re calling it a miracle, but anyone with half a brain can see that if it weren’t for the insane, innumerable sacrifices along the way, none of them would have made it. Rommel has withdrawn, for now anyway, but a decisive victory would mean ending up with at least half of their people still alive, with their artillery not reduced to smithereens... With some tangible chance to actually catch their breath.

Still, a victory it is, even though Thorin’s ears are ringing still, long after Bardia has been successfully retaken, everyone’s joy and relief apparent in their every moment, while he only wonders if he might be able to find himself a quiet spot for a kip any time soon.

It doesn’t take long for him to learn - or, more accurately, for Dwalin to confirm it, with his trademark  _ oh, you’re gonna love this _ grin - that Thorin is indeed the highest ranking officer in this particular encampment, and thus he is going to have to handle  _ a lot  _ of things, characterized most of all by the distinct lack of time for sleep included.

The news start coming in quick, the second they succeed at setting up a stable radio contact in fact, and it’s the same, everywhere - the Axis has been defeated for the time being, retreating as far as Halfaya, but thanks to some quick thinking and  _ a lot _ of last-minute maneuvering, even that stronghold has now been cut off from the sea, and thus any hopes Rommel might have for any seaborne support.

“Yeah, our boys will be comfy, don’t worry,” Dwalin confirms, matching his pace with Thorin’s, something akin to a skip in his step now that he doesn’t spend his time not quite succeeding at pulling  _ their boys _ away from bullets. “Still can’t believe they hoped they’d defend this huge a place with only a skeleton unit. There’s so much  _ space. _ ”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Thorin smiles, the two of them currently marching the length of the impossibly large courtyard of the ancient fortress, age-old limestone worn smooth under their boots. “Make sure we have a good sense of the layout, though. We don’t want to be scattered, I want to know where everyone is at all times.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry so much- oh. Hold on, what’s going on?” Dwalin’s attention is diverted to the lookout towers above the gate, currently occupied by one man each, keeping watch. “Oi, what’s going on?”

“We have a squadron approaching, sir! Five vehicles, our colors!”

“Looks like the Southies to me!” the second watchman clarifies, and with delight, Thorin recognizes Nori’s voice.

“Open the gate,” he orders, Dwalin repeating his words much more loudly, spurring people to action.

“Five vehicles,” Thorin notes.

“Yeah. You figure that’s all that’s left?”

“You know what happened at Sollum - I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The South African units have suffered the heaviest losses, but also achieved the greatest victories, ruthless and fast, some would say reckless even - Thorin has had the events at Sollum, the tiny unit against the overwhelming force, the impossible odds, hastily recounted to him via radio, and of course witnessed the SA troops’ dedication firsthand in the quick and entirely lackluster assault on Bardia, and if there are indeed survivors on the other side of the gate, he must welcome them.

What comes riding in is nothing but a sorry bunch of half theirs, half stolen italian cars, carrying the bloodied and miserable remnants of what they quickly learn was a somewhat botched attempt at reaching  _ the actual _ force at Sollum, but encountering the enemy long before that, a victory ride home turning into a fight for survival and the subsequent retreat.

“You’re joking. Just this once,  _ you _ are the one to arrive all nice and clean?”

Thorin rolls his eyes so hard his head hurts, even before turning around to intercept - to his surprise, Thranduil Oropherion isn’t exactly his usual pristine buffoonish self, but that doesn’t stop him from glowering, even all but literally soaked in blood and grime. Even Dwalin cocks his eyebrow in surprise.

“Whereas you look chewed and spit out. What the hell happened to you? Why aren’t you with your unit?”

Medics are already swarming around Thranduil and the rest, but he seems to pay them no mind, even though just keeping upright seems to be an ordeal for him.

“This is it,” he says simply, one weak gesture encompassing the handful of Aussies scattered among the South Africans, all looking equally worn. “We were regrouping at El Agheila when the counterattack began. I was in the field with... well, you see what’s left of them. We never made it back, and headed north instead. Sollum was the next logical step. This is all that we ran into.”

Thorin sighs heavily, while Dwalin winces in compassion. Nobody who was within miles of the El Agheila defense line has had anything nice to say about the events that led the Jerries to strike them at just the right moment, when they were exhausted, scattered, and underprepared, sapping them of almost all of their initial progress.

Thorin’s unit had been deployed elsewhere, further inland, and it took them about a couple of hours to figure out that there was no coming back to help - only run, and hope for the best. He looks at the man before him, so unlike his usual blustering self, half his immediate unit blown to smithereens, his usual spotless composure shattered, his plans and his bravado both for naught, and for once, Thorin finds himself sympathizing.

“Get cleaned up,” he says, “I’ll brief you later.”

The Australian Colonel and him might have very little in common, but one opinion, they most probably share, even though neither of them will ever go around admitting  _ that _ out loud - this is only a victory on paper, no matter how they might want to spin it, and if they are to  _ truly _ believe that the Axis can be defeated, they are going to have to start producing results that aren’t based on a whole lot of luck, more than anything else.

 

But then again, days, weeks later, weeks spent rebuilding and recuperating, when the post arrives with the newest convoy of supplies, and he’s looking at the thick, luxurious envelope stamped  _ LONDON _ in his hands,  _ some _ victories, he’s willing to believe in.

He receives so many drawings, Kili evidently having trouble containing his crayon creations to the pieces of paper provided to him, and Fili’s handwriting has improved  _ so much...  _ And the blooms that spill out into his hands from in between the sheets of paper, he actually recognizes, tiny and blue - forget-me-nots. Blissfully alone and, for that one perfect moment out of time, perfectly happy, he gets to reading.

 

_ Our dearest Colonel, _

 

_ You cannot imagine the relief we felt when we finally heard back from you. The boys have written you so many letters we never got to send, and they are demanding we cram them all in one envelope right now. Your absence was felt with an acute ache, and now that our means of communication is somewhat restored, we all feel a bit more confident about braving this winter - it has left us snowed in for weeks on end, not even the radios worked for the longest time, always sputtering and cutting out, making the entirety of Oakenclough feel very remote and detached indeed. More so than usual, that is. _

_ I find that writing with the same ease I used to employ before is difficult now, as if the prolonged, involuntary silence has made me forget how to string words together in any sort of satisfying manner. Let me be blunt, then - aside from sharing the boys’ elation, I am also incredibly worried, a fact that I don’t exactly advertise to Fili and Kili, but it is there, nevertheless. _

_ I implore you to take good care of yourself, and perhaps a detailed rapport from home will help you achieve that. School has not been in session for weeks now, many of the children incapable of even making the trip here from the other villages, but I make sure the boys do not spend their time bored. _

_ Kili is just fighting fighting of an illness which has had him bedridden for some time, but he is feeling well enough now that staying still all day is becoming a great annoyance. Fili has read through almost every single book in the household in the meantime, and is hungry for more - the second spring arrives, I think we are taking a trip to Lancaster’s library, and ordering a hefty pile of new reading material... _

 

The peace doesn’t last long, of course it doesn’t. The Germans don’t play dead long, unwilling to give up yet, but the knowledge the Allies have gained in these past several months is invaluable - the weak spots exist, one just has to prod at them long enough to actually exploit them.

The weight of the tin can in his breast pocket, almost full to the brim now - he will have to sort through it soon and decide which letters and dried flowers he  _ really _ wants to keep, as if the answer isn’t  _ all of them, always  _ \- is reassurance enough that if they keep at it, they might actually succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my GOD this has been a long delay. I feel like I write this at the end of every chapter (actually it's not just a feeling, I went back and checked), but real life has been hindering my writing a lot lately. Is this fic gonna take as long to come out as the war lasted? Who knows, hopefully not. I've got the rest planned out pretty much definitively now, and I have no intention whatsoever of abandoning this story, even though I can't really say how long it'll take me to finish it...  
> Needless to say I'm thrilled that there's still interest, thank you to everyone who has asked me about it updating and all in all just let me know you still like this thing, ultimately it's what made me keep coming back :) hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know! we're in for a big time skip after this one, about a year's worth, so that we may get closer to the end, and everyone reuniting at last ;)


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